


The Love I Know in You

by SeveredWing



Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe, Experimentation, F/M, Friendship/Love, Getting to Know Each Other, Live-in Domestic, Male-Female Friendship, Maternal Figure, Mutism, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Sane Sephiroth, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23655676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeveredWing/pseuds/SeveredWing
Summary: At first, she is forced upon him. Soon, he comes to rely on her. Now, he can't be without her.
Relationships: Sephiroth & Original Female Character(s), Sephiroth/Original Female Character
Comments: 117
Kudos: 183





	1. Convincing Arguments

**Author's Note:**

  * For [isflamma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isflamma/gifts).



> A couple things you should know. One, my original character's name is pronounced “Shay”. That might not make a difference for some, but when I'm reading, I like to get the pronunciation correct. Probably because I have had my RL name pronounced incorrectly so many times, it's turned into a pet peeve. Two, I've taken some liberties with Sephiroth's height. In the game, he is 6'1” (185cm). In my story, he's 6'4” (193cm). Three, anything in _italics_ is my character speaking. If you read this chapter, you will understand why I have written it as such.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are always welcome. All I ask is that you be kind. If you do not like my story, I'd rather you simply moved on to another one that you will enjoy. 
> 
> Lastly, this story is for [isflamma](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/isflamma), who always has faith in my ability to write likeable and relatable original characters, and has never once told me to cut it out. Thank you!

In an office on the fifty seventh floor of the Shinra Building, surrounded by panels of computer monitors and TV screens, file cabinets, and framed certificates and diplomas, sits a desk piled with research papers, unfinished reports, and medical journals. Behind the desk is a man wearing a pair of silver wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. His hair is pulled back in a poorly styled ponytail that does not suit his meticulous outfit of a pressed white shirt and tie, tailored trousers, and polished shoes. Finishing off his ensemble is a white lab coat with a laminated security ID clipped to its pocket, complete with photo and name in boldface type. The name reads Hojo, PhD. He is pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head incredulously.

“You wish to do what, Dr. Moreau?” 

“Assign the general a live-in domestic, to serve as cleaner, cook, companion.” The man drops his hand and stares at the woman in front of him. She is petite in stature, with medium-length silver hair laced with white threads, swept back in loose waves, a heart-shaped face, wide set hazel eyes under sculpted brows, a button nose, and bow-shaped lips. She is in her early sixties and wears a lab coat identical to Hojo's. Her name ID reads Moreau, S, PhD. Hojo leans onto his desk with his forearms, displacing several sheets of paper and knocking over an empty paper coffee cup.

“You wish to have a complete stranger move in with Sephiroth? No. Scratch that. You want to order Sephiroth because, let's face it, Sybelline, that is exactly what you will be doing. Ordering him to allow a complete stranger to move into his private quarters?”

“Yes, Hojo, that is what I am seeking permission to do.”

“May I ask why?”

“Of course. It is my professional opinion that Sephiroth's move from the SOLDIER Officers' Quarters to one of Shinra's condominiums will isolate him socially from his co-workers and subordinates.”

“Sephiroth doesn't interact socially.”

“Yes, but at least when he was on floor 48, he was in the company of fellow officers and SOLDIER operatives. Now he will be on his own.”

“He's 25, Sybelline, not 10.”

“Yes, I am aware of that, but I am considering the risks and repercussions of self-isolating. Poorer overall cognitive performance, poorer executive functioning like memory or self-motivation, more negative and depressive cognition, faster cognitive decline-”

“Cognitive decline? Sephiroth?”

“Then there are emotional factors to consider. Depression, sadness, fatigue. Without someone to confide in-”

“He has you to confide in.” Moreau huffs at yet another interruption. 

“Without someone to confide in,” she stresses, “he is more likely to feel less alert, strong, calm, or happy.”

“Happy?! Sephiroth?!”

“You are missing the point, Hojo.”

“And how do you think he will respond to all of this?”

“If it is sanctioned by you, he will agree to it.”

“You mean he will concede to it.”

“Yes.” Hojo reclines in his chair and folds his hands primly on his lap.

“And tell me, where do you plan on finding this live-in domestic?” 

“I already have a candidate list prepared. The background checks have been conducted as have the preliminary interviews.”

“You seem confident that I will say yes.”

“I wanted to be prepared in the event that you approved, yes.”

“Do you have this list with you?” Dr.Moreau pulls a business-sized envelope from her coat pocket and hands it to Hojo. He unfolds the list. As he scans over the names, a valley deepens in the center of his brow. He throws the paper onto his desk, his frown spreading to affect all the surfaces of his face.

“These are all men.” 

“Why, yes. I feel he would be more comfortable sharing his space with another man.”

“Hmm.” Hojo's eyes narrow in thought. Moreau swears she can hear the clockwork turning in his head, the gears slightly rusted, but the mechanism in fine working order.

“Surely, you wouldn't place a woman in this position?”

“Let me see to this, Sybelline. You have a fine list here, but I think we can do better.” Hojo snatches the paper off of his desk and, before Moreau can protest, feeds it into his paper shredder. 

“So, then, I have your approval?” 

“Yes.” Hojo lifts his phone from the receiver and punches in an extension. It rings twice before Moreau can hear the general's unmistakable brusqueness, no doubt from recognizing the incoming caller ID.

“Good day, general. Do you have a spare moment for Dr. Moreau? Her business? I'll let her tell you when she arrives. She'll be up immediat-.” There's the drone of a dial tone before Hojo even finishes his last word. He sets the phone back in the receiver with a grip tight enough to pull the skin white over his knuckles. He mutters several words under his breath. Moreau hears the word impertinent and leaves it at that.

“Well, Sybelline. You had best get up there.”

“You couldn't have given me a day.”

“A day? No, no. This is like a band-aid. Best to get it over with quickly.”

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Dr. Moreau enters the elevator and scans her security ID before depressing the button for the sixty fifth floor. Leave it to Hojo to appropriate her idea. He dictates and relegates and, if others' hard work leads to success, he is there at the front to claim it. But, should it end in failure? He is the first to point fingers and lay blame. Moreau realizes this idea has the potential for catastrophic failure, but she believes it is worth the risk should it succeed. 

The elevator doors open to the floor housing the SOLDIER Director's Office along with the offices of lower ranking officers and SOLDIER operatives. Sephiroth's office is at the end of the hall behind double security doors. She tells his secretary that he is expecting her and Moreau is buzzed in. She closes her eyes, takes two or three deep, centering breaths, curves her lips into a smile, and opens the doors. 

Sephiroth is sitting at his desk. He's reading a military manual in one hand and jotting notes down in the other. The room is silent save for the scratch of pencil to paper. Moreau turns the handle while closing the door to avoid the click of the latch. She seats herself in one of the leather armchairs arranged in front of the desk and cringes at the loud groan of the material as it takes her weight. He continues to work. She waits. Her smile widens, lighting up her eyes and crinkling her crow's feet. Sephiroth has known military service since he was a teenager. He has studied military history, strategies, and tactics throughout his adolescence, and yet he will be the first to tell you that there is always more to learn. He records everything in beautifully bound journals he orders from a local bookseller. They are currently packed away in boxes stacked neatly in the general's den.

“Do I amuse you, doctor?” His eyes shift to her momentarily before returning to the book.

“Not at all, general. I find your work ethic inspiring. As well as your talent for note taking without looking at the page.”

“I can see it in my periphery.” 

“Of course,” she says, nodding in acknowledgement. It becomes clear to Sephiroth that the good doctor is not going to give him the explanation for her visit until she has his full attention. He closes the manual and journal, stacks one on the other, and pushes them off to his right. He opens his top drawer, drops the pencil in a tray, and slides it shut. 

“So, what brings you here, doctor?” he asks, as he stands and stretches. Instead of sitting behind his desk, he comes out to the front and sits in the free chair beside Moreau. Given the nature of the news she is about to tell him, she would have felt less anxious had he remained behind his desk. 

“Your heart rate is elevated, Sybelline. What can possibly have you so nervous?” Moreau inwardly curses his heightened hearing and the inconveniences it can bring to those unlucky enough to be within its range. She decides there is some merit in Hojo's wisdom and decides to get it over with, nice and fast. She turns and looks him in the eyes.

“Sephiroth, you are being assigned a live-in domestic servant.” He tenses. Skin and muscle, pliable and alive, seem to harden to granite before her eyes. His fingers curl around the arms of the chair, the fabric straining under his grip. His eyes brighten. Even his hair stills despite a fan circulating overhead. But worst of all, he remains silent. Moreau wants to list the mountain of data and numerous studies on the dangers of Perceived Self-Isolating if for no other reason than to fill the air with sound. She is about to explain why this opportunity can only work to his advantage, when he breaks the silence.

“When?”

“As soon as Hojo vets a suitable candidate.”

“If he is behind this, then why are you here telling me and not him?”

“Because he is not behind it. I am.” He rises so suddenly that Moreau recoils. He paces in front of her, an agitated predator confined to a cage. 

“Dammit, Sybelline! I do not need a babysitter to dress and feed me, to bathe and clean up after me! I'm not a child!” 

“I know that!” 

“I expect something like this from him, but you?” 

“I know. I know.” He ends his pacing by plopping into the chair. He rests his head back, inhales deeply, and expels his exasperation and tension in a long, exhaustive sigh.

“Then why? Why, Sybelline?”

“Because there are advantages here that you do not see. And I am not just speaking of the cognitive and emotional benefits. I'm talking about companionship, a real connection to someone who demands nothing from you other than friendship.” He turns his head towards her, his stare accusatory, the eyes of a man who has been fed half-truths and fabrications his whole life.

“And tell me, doctor,” he says, spitting out her academic title like a bitter taste on his tongue, “will this companion be receiving a salary from Shinra?” Moreau casts her eyes down, silently chastising herself for not taking into account every variable before making her argument. Because of her ineffectiveness, he destroyed it with one swift blow.

“Yes, they will.”

“Then they're little more than another Shinra whore sent to placate me.”

“Sephiroth! That is not the case!” He gets up and returns to the chair behind his desk. He swivels it around to stare out the windows at the concrete stain that is Midgar.

“Please leave.”

“Sephiroth, I-” He whirls on her.

“Get out, Sybelline! I will defer to your professional judgment in this matter, but I do not have to graciously accept it! Now...please go!” He turns back to watch her reflection in the window as she rises to leave, her infectious smile withdrawn by his harsh words. Many days during his life he would wait with bated breath to see that smile, to drive away the terror he was being subjected to, to ease the pain. And yet there were days he would crush it as easily as silken petals under his boot heel.

She opens the door and takes one last look in his direction before closing it behind her. She walks down the hallway towards the bank of elevators, talking to herself under the echoing clack of her heels against the tile. It could have gone worse, right? I could have been run through with Masamune. Oh, Sybelline. His sword wasn't even in his office. Still has the use of his hands, though. A fragile smile appears as she hits the down button to return to her office. If she can still rely on her sick sense of humour at a time like this, perhaps all is not yet lost.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

In seven days time, Dr. Moreau is standing in Hojo's office. She received a call that morning telling her to be there at seven prompt. Fortunately, Moreau has a condo on the sixtieth floor of the Shinra building, so she was able to go home and change from her day dress to some casuals. Present in the office is Hojo and a comely young woman Moreau would place in her early twenties. She has brown hair the colour of dark chocolate, pulled back in a tight bun that, despite its severity, does not detract from her features: a diamond-shaped face with high cheekbones, pale complexion, a straight nose, plump upper and lower lips that give her a natural pout, and a pair of mesmerizing ice blue eyes. Moreau imagines that with the right make-up, hairstyle, and jewellery this woman is quite a beauty. As she stands, however, with her stiff posture and masculine clothing, she gives the impression of an orderly, efficient, and lackluster person.

“Dr. Moreau? I would like to introduce you to Shai Montgomery, the general's new domestic hire. Shai? This is Dr. Sybelline Moreau, genetic counsellor and research scientist here at Shinra.” Moreau offers her hand to shake and can't help but notice a thin, hypertrophic scar running horizontally along Shai's throat. Moreau's professional assessment is major traumatic injury. She makes a mental note to read through her background check. When the young lady waves hello before returning Moreau's handshake, the doctor looks to Hojo for an explanation.

“Miss Montgomery cannot speak, Sybelline. She communicates through sign language.”

“Sign language.”

“Yes, sign language.” Alarm bells are ringing at a deafening volume in Moreau's head, ushering in a humdinger of a headache. Hojo disregarded her list of perfectly suitable, verbal, male candidates for a young, mute woman. She can't help but immediately question his motives, but not now. Not in front of this young lady. There will be a another time and place for that discussion. 

“I am unsure of the general's proficiency in sign language, Hojo. This may become an issue.”

“Nonsense! The general is fluent in many languages, ancient and modern. It will not be difficult for him to learn. Besides, Miss Montgomery's CV is impressive. Her references are impeccable. We would be foolish to let her slip through our fingers over something as trivial as a temporary interruption in communication.” Hojo walks over to his office door and opens it.

“Now, Dr. Moreau, why don't you take Shai to meet her new client? Hmm? He's already expecting you.”


	2. First Impressions

The women leave Hojo's office with a congratulatory handshake for Shai and a pat on the back for Dr. Moreau. They walk in silence to the elevator bank. Moreau taps the up button and chances a glance at the young woman beside her. Shai is preoccupied with the progression of the elevator as it rises to their floor. She is carrying a medium-sized suitcase, that has seen better days, and a small leather portfolio common among traditional artists. 

“Are you an artist?” Shai turns to Moreau and nods her head imperceptibly, then returns her attention to the numbers lighting consecutively over the elevator doors.

“What medium do you use?” Shai sets down her luggage and moves her right hand pinkie twice in front of the flat palm of her left. When Moreau looks at her oddly, Shai mimics the motion of drawing with an air pencil on invisible paper.

“Oh! You draw! Wonderful! One day you must show me some of your work.” Shai smiles and makes a circular motion over her face with open fingers before closing them together at the completion of the circle. _Lovely._ Moreau politely returns the smile, having no idea what Shai just said. The doctor realizes that she is going to have to take a crash course on sign language if she is to form a working relationship with this woman. The ladies are spared from further awkwardness by the chime of the elevator arriving. Once inside the car, Moreau holds her security ID to the card reader on the button panel and waits until the green light appears and a bell intones, then she hits the number sixty three. 

“Certain floors can only be accessed by individually programmed ID cards. Did Professor Hojo have one made for you?” Shai pulls a card from her shirt's pocket and shows it to Moreau. 

“Excellent. Think of it as your house key. Keep it on you at all times whenever you are not in the condo. Ah! Here we are!” The doors slide open to reveal an attractive foyer with a contemporary design. The floor is carpeted in a light neutral tone and the facing wall is layered in natural cut stones of multi-hued slate; the remaining are painted in a smokey blue. There are two sets of doors made of solid timber and stained black walnut. One set is to Shai's immediate left and the other is in the far right wall. As they exit the elevator, Shai sees there is a second one next to theirs. 

“You needn't worry about that elevator. It's an express programmed to bypass this floor.” Moreau gestures to the doors to the left.

“That is the general's dojo. I doubt you will have to concern yourself with that. And these doors here are to the condominium.” Moreau presses the doorbell and a muted melodic tune of church bells rings inside. Not long after, the sound of locks being disengaged can be heard and the right door swings open. There, in all his glory, stands General Sephiroth. Shai's heart beats hard against her chest. 

“Good evening, general.”

“Hello, doctor.” 

“My apologies at calling at this hour, but Hojo said you were expecting us. May we come in?” He does not answer. He merely backs away to allow the two women to enter, his tall form looming over them as they walk by. The condo's living area is open-concept. To Shai's left is the kitchen with an island with bar stools lining one side and a wrought iron pot rack laden with cookware hung over the stove, a dining area with a dark wood dining table surrounded by upholstered chairs with clean, simple lines, and an L-shaped living room with a gas fireplace. To the left, off the living room, is a closed door that Shai assumes leads to a bedroom and to the right, off of the other leg of the living room is a hallway. The outer wall of the living room is constructed entirely of windows.

Moreau leads Shai to the couch set in front of the fireplace. The doctor makes herself comfortable, sitting back into the cushioned backrest and crossing her legs. Shai seats herself in a less casual manner, placing her luggage off to the side, out of sight. They hear the door latch and soon Sephiroth joins them, preferring to remain standing. Shai keeps her focus on the fire, its flames fluttering gold and orange in a hypnotic dance. In any other context, this would have had a relaxing effect on her, but tonight it only serves to draw her gaze to the general, now leaning against the mantle, eyeing her like a bird of prey tracking an unsuspecting rodent. He has clearly showered and dressed for bed. His hair is damp, his long fringe hanging limply to frame his face and neck, and he is wearing a black silk dressing gown over black silk pyjama bottoms. 

“It's nice to see you again, doctor,” he says, his attention never wavering from Shai, “I am sorry for how we left matters last time.”

“I accept your apology, general, but it is unnecessary. Your reaction was understandable and well within your right, but now, I hope, we can start this venture anew.” Moreau puts on her most assuring smile and places her hand on Shai's shoulder. 

“Shai? I would like you to meet General Sephiroth, your new client. Sephiroth? I would like you to meet Shai Montgomery, your new domestic live-in.” Shai's nerves send her springing off the couch to stand in front of the fireplace. She looks Sephiroth bravely in the eyes and offers to shake his hand, unable to stop the slight trembling in hers. He glances down at it with a look of faint disgust before engulfing it in his own. Shai winces at the firmness of his grip, a subtle and unspoken message to those on the receiving end; do not trifle with me. Sephiroth, on the other hand, makes a more aesthetic observation; the graceful length of her fingers as they curl about his. They withdraw their hands. He looks at Moreau. 

“I still have no say in this?”

“I'm afraid not.” Resigned to his fate, he lets out a sigh then returns his attention to Shai, who remains patiently standing in front of him.

“Do you speak?” he asks, assuming anxiety over their meeting has rendered her mute. He cocks an eyebrow in surprise when Shai signs _no_ and points to the scar on her neck. Sephiroth's eyes fall to Moreau.

“What is this, Sybelline?”

“Quite simple. Shai has lost her ability to speak and now communicates with sign language. Are you conversant in sign language, general?” 

“Rudimentary.”

“Perhaps Shai would be willing to instruct you.” Shai looks at Moreau like she ordered her to kiss the man and makes several signs that leave Moreau and Sephiroth watching her questioningly. She looks from one to the other for a futile response, then nods. 

“Thank you. But I'll manage on my own.”

“Well, then,” says Moreau, standing up and pulling the hem of her shirt down and smoothing out the creases in her jeans, “Why don't you show us where Shai will be living?” Sephiroth leads them towards and down the hallway. There is a door to Shai's left that leads to a den or office that has empty bookshelves lining two of the four walls, a leather couch positioned in front of a wall of windows, and unopened boxes stacked two, three high in the center. There is a door at the end of the hall that Shai assumes is the bathroom, and a door to the right that opens on to the guest bedroom. Shai's bedroom now.

Sephiroth switches on the light. The room is situated in the interior of the condo, so there are no windows. As you walk in and look to the right, there is an unmade queen size bed with four pillows and a padded upholstered headboard. White stained bedside chests sit on either side of the bed with matching lamps designed of embroidered silk shades paired with glass bases. Against the far wall, is an armoire made of barn wood. Standing to the left of the armoire is a torchiere; to the right of it, a chest of drawers. To the left of the entry, is a door that leads to the bathroom. Next to that door is a large rectangular cheval mirror stained the same wood as the armoire. Shai cannot help but be impressed with the decor and wonders if the condo had come furnished or if the general had a say in the interior design. Doesn't matter, really. Shai is in heaven. Her dinky apartment could fit in this room. She watches Sephiroth walk to the armoire and open the doors revealing linens, towels, blankets, and a duvet.

“Well, this is beautiful. Thank you, general. I think we can take it from here.” Shai's wide eyes shift from Moreau to Sephiroth and back to Moreau. She is sure this man is not accustomed to being dismissed so casually, let alone in his own home, but he surprises her by nodding to the doctor.

“As you wish. Should you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask.” He strides from the room, leaving Shai standing in front of Moreau with her mouth gaping open. Moreau smiles at the young woman.

“Believe me, had anyone else spoke to him that way, they'd have his odachi through their abdomen, but I have a different relationship with him than most.” With the tip of her forefinger and thumb touching and remaining fingers splayed, Shai waves her hands back and forth horizontally. _Explain._ Moreau looks at her funny again, and Shai twirls her hand to indicate for Moreau to elaborate.

“Oh! I have known Sephiroth since he was a child. Toddler, actually. There are only a handful of people who have known him for as long or longer. Most are no longer employed with Shinra.” Moreau walks to the armoire and pulls out a fitted sheet, top sheet, and four pillowcases. She looks over her shoulder at Shai.

“Duvet or blanket? Or both?” Shai points to the duvet and Moreau pulls it from the shelf. She walks to the bed and plops the bedding on the mattress. Shai moves to help her spread out the sheets. While they work, Moreau continues to talk.

“I'm not sure what information Professor Hojo passed on to you regarding the general, but let me add my two cents worth. As you may have noticed, he is not exactly thrilled that you are here. Sephiroth is a very private man. He leads a solitary life, some of that of his choosing, some of it not. I'm sure you have heard all sorts of rumours about him. Take them at face value.” Moreau slips a pillow into its case and gives it a few good fluffs.

“You are in a privileged position, Shai. You have the opportunity to get to know an exceptional and unique individual. It will not be easy to gain his trust, but once you have it, well, he will be a loyal friend.” Shai's eyes widen again as she hooks her fingers in a repetitive flipping motion. _Friend?_ When Moreau looks at her with an unknowing expression, Shai just chuckles to herself and shakes her head in resignation.

The bed finished and Shai's clothes put away in the chest of drawers and armoire, Moreau pulls a smart phone out of her shirt's pocket and hands it to Shai.

“Keep this with you, always. I know you cannot call me, but text me any time, day or night. Alright?” Shai nods yes and looks at Moreau with a furrowed brow, glassy eyes, and a weak smile, her poor attempt at a brave face. When Moreau moves to comfort her, she backs away suddenly, rubbing at her eyes roughly with the back of her sleeve. Regaining her composure, she curls the fingers of her right hand into a fist and does a circular motion in front of her chest. _Sorry._

“You'll do fine.” Shai takes a deep breath and makes a sign that Moreau actually recognizes. She folds her hands and smiles.

“You're welcome.”

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Moreau walks out into the living room where Sephiroth is reclined on the sofa in front of the fire, reading a leather-bound book on philosophy. He sets the book aside and stands as Moreau approaches him. 

“You think the best companion for me is a mute girl?”

“Woman, and she's lovely.”

“Sybelline-”

“She is Hojo's choice.”

“Then I should be immediately suspect.”

“Give her a chance? Please? I know you do not understand my reasoning for setting this in motion, but with time, I hope you will.”

“You still think me a child hiding under a hospital bed.”

“Not at all, Sephiroth. I see you as a man hiding behind a facade of intimidation and indifference. Despite what the professor thinks, you are more than a weapon.”

“I am what they made me.” Moreau takes a few steps to stand in front of him, her neck craned uncomfortably to hold eye contact. She places a hand on his cheek, his skin soft and smooth. Unaccustomed to displays of affection, he flinches. Seconds later, however, he recognizes the warmth of that hand as it comforted him underneath that hospital bed and he leans into her touch. 

“No, my boy. You are so much more. You can have so much more.” She drops her hand and smiles, then walks to the door. The general's attention focuses on the fire licking up and around the fabricated logs. Moreau opens the door and pauses before passing through.

“Sephiroth?” He looks up at the doctor, his expression revealing a man deep in thought.

“Yes?”

“Be gentle.”

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai remains in her day clothes, sitting at the end of the bed, wondering what to do next. She glances down at a small pocket sketchbook and pencil she pulled out of her portfolio in order to make communicating a bit easier. The general's comprehension of sign language is probably limited to basic words and phrases, like a tourist on holiday in a foreign land. Given his fluency in other languages, Shai hopes he will find her worthy enough to become the same in hers. 

Up until now, she has accepted employment that had her working in the background, behind the scenes, rarely as a chef and never as a server or anything that required a great deal of communication. But when word spread of a lucrative domestic position at Shinra Headquarters for a high-ranking official, the offer demanded her consideration. After a thorough background check and preliminary interviews, she finally met with Professor Hojo. When he informed her who the “high-ranking official” was, Shai was tempted to hightail it and never look back. Who in their right mind would work as a live-in domestic for the most dangerous man on the planet? 

But Professor Hojo seemed intent on hiring her and put a new monetary offer on the table, one that would allow Shai to start a savings for the first time in her life and the chance to relocate to warmer, greener climes in a few years. So, Shai said yes, and now here she sits, afraid to even move around lest she make a noise that disturbs or annoys him. Imagine her surprise when she hears a knock and sees her new client standing in the open doorway, his height, broad shoulders, and chest seeming to take up the entire space. His hair has dried and his fringe hangs perfectly on either side of his face, a face Shai wonders if she'll ever have the opportunity to study in greater detail. There is no doubt regarding the rumours about his appearance. The man is breathtaking.

“Is there anything you need?” Shai's right hand waves in front of her, moves to touch closed fingers to her chin before sweeping them away from her. _No thank you._

“Then I will say good night.” Shai stands and gestures in two motions the signs for good and night. Sephiroth nods in reply, his eyes never leaving hers and disappears from the doorway. She listens to his footfalls fade as he retires to his bedroom on the other side of the living room.

She stands in the center of her room, motionless, her eyes still staring at the empty doorway. How long she stands there, she does not know, only that it feels like forever and seconds all at once. She finally breaks from her trance-like state, closes the door, and goes to the dresser to get her pyjamas. The purchase of new sleepwear was necessary for her new employment. Her previous sleeping habits would undoubtedly have been frowned upon by Professor Hojo, Dr. Moreau, and the general. If this had been her crappy little apartment, she'd be lying in a twin bed in her panties and a worn t-shirt. Tonight, she plans on being in satin Pjs sprawled out on expensive cotton sheets in a queen-sized bed with her arms and legs angled to all four corners. Paradise. Minutes later, she crawls into bed and turns off the light, pitching her into complete darkness. She centers herself and snuggles under the duvet, sprawling in all directions. 

She lays there, tired but unable to sleep. The dark and silence are too oppressive to set her mind at ease. She fumbles for the lamp, bumps its base, and sends it crashing to the floor. She lies still and waits. Waits to hear him stomping down the hall, irritated and deadly, sword in hand, but there is nothing but silence. Taking special care, she reaches over to turn on the second lamp. The room illuminates and reveals a crumpled shade and broken light-bulb; not the end of the world. Shai rights the lamp, reattaches the shade, pops it back into shape, then daintily picks up the shards of glass and disposes of them in the bathroom. A mental light-bulb of her own shines a solution to Shai's problem and she decides to leave the bath light and bathroom vent fan on all night. Crawling back into bed, she gets comfortable again. Soon, with the help of her impromptu nightlight and the steady drone of the fan, it is not long before sleep finds her.


	3. First Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Many, _many_ thanks to all who left comments, kudos, story alerts, favourites, and bookmarks! They are very much appreciated! It pleases me to know that there are readers out there who are enjoying the story. I hope you continue to do so. 
> 
> Just a reminder- _italics_ = Shai/sign language. If you should see italics within quotations, then it is the speaker emphasizing that particular word. 
> 
> And, as always, comments and kudos are always welcome, if for no other reason than they make me smile.

Shai awakens with a start, sitting straight up in bed, disoriented and groggy from the abrupt disruption of her dream. She looks around at fragments of an unfamiliar setting; a bathroom with the light and vent fan left on; a sliver of silver glare from a mirror; and the outline of a door, presumably the entrance to this room. The bed feels too large and the blankets too soft. Even the pyjamas sticking to her skin do not feel right. Where am I? Then, it swiftly comes back to her. Her new job in the Shinra Building. A creepy professor and a nice doctor. Elevator ride to a condominium on the 63rd floor. Introduction to her new client. She grabs the phone to check the time: 6 o'clock am. Time to get up. 

Shai swings her legs over the bed and moves to switch on the lamp when she remembers sending it flying to the floor. She pads over to the torchiere and switches it on. It lights up the entire room in ambient light. She walks into the bathroom. It is as beautifully designed as her new room: a porcelain pedestal sink, a large mounted oval-shaped mirror with a black lacquered frame, and a freestanding ceramic tub and shower encased in a tiled, glass enclosure. She unpacks her toiletry bag in a glass cabinet opposite the sink and takes out a washcloth to do her morning routine. 

Depending on the client, Shai had a standard “uniform” of worn blue jeans, v-neck T-shirt, and low-top canvas sneakers dotted with paint splatters. She never applied make-up and her hair was done up in a tight bun like she wore yesterday. She wonders if such an ensemble would be acceptable for the general. She decides on a blue v-neck T-shirt and replaces the jeans with chino pants. She pulls her hair back in a knotted pony tail and gives herself one last inspection in the cheval mirror. Not bad, Shai, she thinks. Let us hope you are not alone in your assessment. Grabbing the little sketchbook and pencil, she walks down the hallway with greater care than she means to and peeks around the corner. 

The living area is empty. So is the kitchen and dining area. The door to his bedroom is closed. Not a sound can be heard, leaving Shai to wonder if the place is sound-proofed. She takes a chance and knocks on the general's bedroom door. She waits for it to swing open and have a towering one hundred ninety three centimeters of enraged SOLDIER glowering down at her, but nothing. He's not here. And I thought I was an early riser, she thinks to herself. 

She goes into the kitchen and begins to take stock of what is there. The fridge is filled with little more than bottled water, even though there is a dispenser in the door, and a few takeaway containers with leftover entrees inside. Browsing through the containers, it is clear the man has a high end palate. Shai is going to have to brush up on her culinary arts. She may not have taken on the role of chef very often, but that doesn't mean she can't cook a mean lobster thermidor. Plus a run back to her apartment to nab some cookbooks couldn't hurt. 

Taking inventory of the rest of the kitchen and pantry is easy since there is nothing to take inventory of. The cupboards are literally bare, aside from his tableware and glassware. The drawers contain cutlery and assorted utensils. The kitchen has all the tools needed to cook a fine meal, but without the cook to prepare it. Shai has to go shopping. She composes her first text to Dr. Moreau, asking if she is aware of an allowance for food and if so, how does she access it. The reply comes quickly; I'll be right there.

While waiting for Moreau, Shai goes to her room to gather her satchel, sweater, and scarf. Fifteen minutes later there is a knock on the door. She peeks through the peephole and opens the door for the doctor. 

“Good morning,” she says in a tone much too bubbly for the hour. Shai grabs the sketchbook and writes; you got here fast. 

“Oh! That's because I live in the building. We're practically neighbours! I live on the 60th floor and my office is on the 55th.” She pulls out two bank cards from the pocket of her lab coat and hands them to Shai, each has a post-it note adhered to it with a four-digit pin.

“These are for you. One is for the spending account to maintain the condo and for purchasing groceries, and the second is for your personal account to access your pay. Should you have any questions about the cards or the accounts, the bank has a branch in the lobby.” Shai fishes her wallet out of her leather satchel and slips the cards into it. 

“Are you familiar with the area? The shops and whatnot?” Moreau asks, as Shai slides into her favourite knitted cardigan, wraps the scarf around her neck, and grabs the satchel. Shai quickly jots down that she'll manage. 

“OK. If you wish to grab a bite to eat before you head out, there is an excellent cafeteria on the 10th floor. It's for Shinra employees.” Shai writes that maybe she'll stop in.

“Shai? If you don't mind. After you have written down what you wish to say, would you mind translating it into sign language? I wish to learn and they say the best way to learn a new language is to immerse yourself in it. It can't be very practical for you to write everything down.” Shai smiles and writes down her answer, then signs _of course_.

The doctor leaves and Shai does another sweep of the lower cupboards to see if, by chance, the general has reusable shopping bags. She's not surprised when she finds none and adds it to her mental shopping list. She slings her satchel over her head and right shoulder. It is one of her most favourite possessions, a vintage design constructed of brown leather with a distressed finish and a long adjustable strap to keep her hands free. It is as prized to her as her portfolio, professional grade artist pencils, and the copy of Emily Dickinson poems given to her by her mother.

By the time she steps out the door, it's shortly after seven. She enters the elevator and realizes that it does not climb to all floors, but stops at the 66th, four floors shy of the top. She takes the elevator to the 10th floor. The cafeteria is not hard to find; it takes up the entire floor. Men and women in the lower echelons of Shinra's hierarchy exit the bank of elevators, some still wearing their coats and toting purses, some in overalls with the Shinra insignia embroidered on the sleeve, others donning bike helmets and courier bags, all there to have their morning meal or a cup of joe. Shai is sure in a building such as this there is another establishment for upper management and executives to dine and discourse. That could explain the calibre of the dishes found in the general's fridge. She buys herself an egg, cheese, and spinach breakfast sandwich and an extra large mochaccino. She finds a single table by the windows and tucks into her breakfast, dividing her attention between the view of Midgar and the full grown silver birch tree in the center of the room.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai's apartment is a small studio on the plate, a cramped one room with a kitchenette, closet, and a small bath consisting of a tiny sink, toilet, and space-saving shower. It is furnished with a twin-sized daybed with a wrought iron frame that serves as a sofa by day and a bed by night; an accent table with three drawers topped with a vintage bell shade lamp with jewelled blue glass that she lucked out on at a rummage sale. There is also a steamer trunk that stores Shai's clothes nestled in the corner. Every other available space is taken up by shelving filled top to bottom, end to end, with books, and if there is no space on the shelves, they are stacked in columns or arranged in rows on the floor. It is on these shelves that Shai pulls three cookbooks that she feels are appropriate for a distinguished palate. She shoves them into a rucksack and heaves it onto her right shoulder. She takes one last look around to see if she needs anything, decides she's good, and locks the door behind her. She passed a grocery store on her way here. That is her next stop.

The store is of medium size, a lovely family run business, smelling of newly baked bread and fresh cut flowers. Shai decides on buying ingredients for a simple meal tonight, spend her lunch preparing a suitable menu, then do a bigger shop the following morning and have it delivered. She chooses a recipe she knows by heart, makes her purchases, and begins her journey back. Shai finds that as she moves closer to the Shinra building, butterflies quiver excitedly in her belly. It is the thought of returning to the condo to find the general is at home that is feeding this nervous frenzy. Ridiculous, she thinks. It is not even midday. Why would he be home? 

Stepping onto the elevator, scanning her ID, and pressing floor 63 brings sidelong glances from a few of the car's occupants as well as a few stares as they exit on their chosen floors. As the last person steps off on the 57th floor, they turn to give Shai an appraising look before the elevator doors block them from view. Shai can't help but wonder if this is going to be a common occurrence every time she leaves and returns to the condo. Clearly it is no secret who lives on the 63rd floor. She exits into the foyer, swipes her ID over the security lock, and walks inside, mentally bracing herself in the event her client decided to come home for lunch. But she is met with an empty residence as devoid of life and sound as it was this morning. 

She sets the groceries on the kitchen counter and goes to her bedroom to put her things away. As she steps from the hallway, she stops dead. There in the kitchen, gulping down a bottle of water, is the general. The length of his hair is pulled back and bound with a strip of black leather at the nape of his neck, his fringe flowing freely. But what takes Shai's breath away, is the kendo gi and hakama he is wearing. Then it clicks; he was in his dojo. He's downing his second liter of water when he finally takes notice of Shai. He finishes off the bottle and tosses it into a blue recycle bin under the sink. Well, Shai thinks, at least he's not clogging the landfills with plastic. He says nothing until he reaches his bedroom door.

“I will be working late this evening. Do not expect me for dinner.” Shai nods in reply, then signs _OK_. He enters his bedroom. The moment she hears the door click shut, Shai runs back to her room and dumps the contents of her satchel on the bed. She grabs the sketchbook and pencil and walks briskly back to the kitchen to unpack the groceries. Once finished, she writes in her book; would you like lunch? She walks to his bedroom door and musters the courage to knock when she hears the hiss of the shower. Damn, she thinks. She's not sure her courage will last the time it takes for him to bathe. She returns to the kitchen and opens the storage closet. She begins rummaging through the cleaning supplies, most of which are untouched. She needs to busy herself with work if for no other reason than to divert her thoughts from the general in a kendo uniform to dusting and polishing.

Armed with a cloth and spray, Shai goes about her work. She starts with the dining table, wiping down a surface with not a trace of dust on it. She sighs at the ridiculousness of it all, but she has to do something, and if that means cleaning an already immaculate living area, then so be it. She is finishing up with the legs of the last dining chair when she hears his bedroom door open. With what little courage remains, she stands and grabs the sketchbook. As he walks towards the door, she steps in front of him, boldly blocking his way. His eyes brighten momentarily with unchecked emotion. He cocks a brow at her and prepares to speak, but Shai beats him to it. However, in her rush to show him the book, she thrusts the open pages high in front of his face, almost knocking him in the nose. Realizing her foolishness, she lowers the sketchbook to a more manageable distance and holds it for him to read.

“No, thank you. I eat in my office while I work.” Shai closes the book, signs _OK_ , and steps out of his way. He nods either in gratitude or approval, Shai is not sure, but she replies with a smile. He looks at her strangely as if she is something of an oddity, then proceeds out the door. Shai truly begins to wonder if he associates with anyone outside of Shinra's sphere. She finishes up the living room, and decides to break for lunch before vacuuming. She makes herself her usual- spiral ham, Havarti, spinach, and spicy mustard- grabs one of her cookbooks, and has a seat at the kitchen bar. Well, it looks like her choice of dinner tonight will have to be scaled down to one. No matter. She expected there would be days like this. He is a general and in charge of the SOLDIER program. Of course, he's busy.

Shai spends her lunch multi-tasking between eating, flipping through the cookbook, and writing up a menu and a shopping list for the rest of the week. The question on her mind is whether or not he will be home to eat these meals? Should she come right out and ask him? He may not appreciate her poking into his schedule. Then there is the path of least resistance; assume he will be home and cook accordingly. Take the risk that she could be spooning leftovers into food containers more often than not. She hates the idea of wasting food, especially when she has taken the time and effort to make it. She wonders whether he would eat leftovers for lunch? She's going to make an educated guess and say no. All those takeaway containers in the fridge are still there. If he had intended to eat one of them for his afternoon meal, he would have taken it with him.

If she is going to be an effective live-in domestic, these are the types of things she needs to know. Too many wrong assumptions on her part, and he will decide she is a blundering incompetent and that is not her. She slips the menu and list into the cookbook to mark her place and gets back to work. She vacuums the carpets and sweeps the tile floors in the kitchen and bathroom. She leaves the den and his bedroom alone. They raise more questions than she is comfortable asking right now. Baby steps, Shai. One thing at a time. When she has finished, she decides that is enough for the day. She preps the ingredients needed for tonight's meal and stores them in the refrigerator until it is closer to the dinner hour. She knows he is working late. She has a couple of hours to kill. Perhaps some me time is in order. 

She grabs her large sketchbook and pencils from her portfolio. Sitting on the couch, she begins to sketch the fireplace. The masonry is made of the same layered slate stone that is in the foyer. Pinks, oranges, blues, and tans mixed with browns and greys stand in stark contrast to the painted white walls of the living area. The mantel is a hand hewn beam of red oak stained the same dark shade as the doors. It is a centerpiece all on its own. She takes her time, paying too much attention to detail than she should for a sketch. Typical. Every picture has to be a masterpiece. Every picture has to perfect. It's her high expectations that has brought about some of her best work as well as her lowest moments. 

Dinnertime sneaks up on her, but given that she is eating alone, the hour no longer matters. She decides to cook a meal for two, taking small portions and saving the rest. Should she leave him a note that dinner is in the fridge? He has probably already eaten his meal at that elusive executive restaurant. She would not be surprised if there is another takeaway container added to the others. She cleans up the kitchen, shining every surface like new, leaving it in the same condition it was when he left this morning. The only addition she has made is a fruit bowl on the island, filled with oranges and red and green apples, a splash of colour among the neutrals, whites, and dark woods.

She takes a shower and marvels at the luxurious shower head, a square fixture mounted into the ceiling to give the bather the feeling of being in a rain shower. It is nothing like the trapped feeling she would have had in her old bathroom's enclosure. She spends the first few minutes simply standing under it, arms open wide, head tilted back, letting the hot water give her a sense of renewal. As first days on the job go, this could have been much worse. She washes her hair and body and, with a certain amount of reluctance, gets out and dries off. She forgoes blow drying her hair, so she can get to bed earlier. She walks out into the living area and turns off all the lights save one. Placed next to the fruit bowl is a note to the general.

Normally, when she crawls into bed, she has a novel to read. Tonight she'll have to suffice with another cookbook. Finding a light-bulb in the storage closet, Shai is able to settle in to browse through the recipes for chicken cordon bleu, Cornish game hen, and beef Wellington. She remembers closing the book when her eyelids begin to droop and that is all. She is positive that she fell asleep with the light on, but when she wakes in the morning, the lamp is off.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Sephiroth comes home near midnight to find his home smells of furniture polish and the lingering aroma of a home cooked meal. Walking towards the kitchen, he can't help but notice the large clear mixing bowl filled with fresh fruit. He doesn't know whether to be annoyed at her assumption that this is acceptable, or be impressed with her initiative to have healthy food readily available to snack on. He grabs a red apple and picks up the note. Taking a bite, he reads:

Made cheese ravioli with pepper topping.  
You'll find it in a clear container in the fridge.  
Hope you had a good day.

Shai

Hope you had a good day? He recalls the meetings, paperwork, and review of new recruits that comprised his schedule. If he had to place his day in a category, he concludes that good would suffice. Sephiroth grins and takes another large bite of apple. Is this what it is going to be like to share accommodations with someone? Handwritten pleasantries regarding leftovers? He places the note back on the counter, and walks to his room. He pauses with his hand resting on the door handle. Floating down the hall, is a sound common to those who have a vibrating soft palate. Snoring, faint, but unmistakable is coming from her room. She has carelessly fallen asleep with the light on and door open. He's tempted to ignore it and retire for the night. None of his business, really. But that light. It irks him somehow. He never understood people's preoccupation with their sleeping environments. Particular idiosyncrasies like absolute silence, a fan on high speed, nightlights, etc. For him, it is a matter of closing his eyes, his upbringing and years of military service undoubtedly to blame. 

He strides down the hall and peeks around the door frame. As he suspected, she is asleep, her mouth parted just enough to let out a low rumble. He walks silently into her room, to the far side of the bed. He gazes down at her. She lies on her right side, knees bent, and her hands resting near her face. Her hair is loose, large natural curls spilling onto her pillow and the bedding. She looks like a completely different person with her hair unbound, the soft waves restoring the youth that the previous hairstyle had stolen away. He decides that he prefers her hair this way. Sephiroth has always had discerning taste when it has come to women. It does not take him long to recognize a woman's defining attributes. He noticed Shai's eyes immediately. Now, her hair. Perhaps there will come a day in the future when he will be able to compliment her. For now, though, he reaches under the shade, and turns out the light.


	4. For a Fortnight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! What wonderful comments and reviews! Thank you to all who sent them! And thanks to all who left story alerts, favourites, kudos, and bookmarks. I hope I'm not forgetting anybody. If I am, my apologies.

Shai's second day is unfolding much like her first. She awoke before her 6 o'clock alarm, baffled this morning not by her general surroundings, but by the darkened lamp at her bedside. She was sure she had fallen asleep with it on. I guess not, she thought. In the bathroom, she performed her morning's ablutions; washing and moisturizing her face and neck, applying deodorant, and brushing her teeth. She dressed in an outfit similar to yesterday's. Afterwards, she brushed her hair back into a ponytail and braided it to keep it under control and out of her way, although she had trouble locating her hair ties in her bedroom and bath. Unable to solve the mystery, she dug out two from the side compartment in her satchel. 

She is now out in the kitchen preparing breakfast rather than eat another morning in the cafeteria; a bland selection of bran cereal with a splash of almond milk, vanilla yogurt, and fresh fruit. She sits at the island bar, and grabs one of her cookbooks. She begins to review that evening's recipe in between spoonfuls of flakes and bites of apple. She takes a half an hour to eat, then places her dishes in the dishwasher. She pulls the grocery list from the cookbook, folds it, and slips it into her satchel. Wearing her sweater and scarf, she throws the bag over her head, and leaves to go shopping. Her ride down from the 63rd floor is uneventful except for one curious onlooker who enters the car on the 59th floor. 

Shai returns to her apartment to choose a book for her bedtime read and then makes her way to the mom and pop store she patronized yesterday. Having written detailed instructions out on the back of the list, she hands it to the proprietor's wife. The groceries will be delivered to Shinra that afternoon. Shai buys a bouquet of summer blossoms, nods to the shop owner, and returns to Shinra. Her ride up in the elevator is not only a source of scrutiny today, but of whispers as well. Who is she? Isn't that the general's floor? Are the flowers for the general? Had she the use of her voice, she would have gladly answered every question. Unfortunately, she has to remain silent. There is no room for her to sign and she doesn't want to add more fuel to the fire.

The first exception to her day is that afternoon. Lunch comes and goes without a visit from the general. No training in the dojo this morning. No vision in a kendo uniform quenching his thirst in the kitchen. Just the thought of the day before has Shai's vivid imagination wandering. She pillages the storage closet, removes a microfiber mop and a spray bottle containing soapy water, and vigorously washes the tile floor in the kitchen and entry. 

The second exception to her day comes in the form of a text on her phone. Naturally, Shai assumes it is Dr. Moreau, but nearly drops the cell after reading the sender's name: Sephiroth. She goes to her contacts and, sure enough, under S is the general's name. No rank, just his name. She hits the text. Do not plan on me for dinner, it reads. OK, Shai thinks, no big deal. Another late night at work. There is bound to be more than one. She'll reduce the recipe in half and eat another dinner alone. Careful, Shai, she thinks. You sound like a disgruntled housewife.

The grocery delivery is about as eventful as she anticipated. A lone, mystery woman loading enough boxes and bags of food to take up the entire space on the elevator. Every floor it stops on, Shai is forced to make a gesture of apology when the passenger cannot enter, earning her scowls and/or exaggerated exhales of annoyance and disapproval. She wishes like hell there had been a freight elevator she could have used. Thankfully, she should not have to leave the condo until her next shopping trip.

Unpacking the groceries takes some time. She tries to imagine how the general would have the cupboards and pantry arranged and stocks them accordingly, organizing the food by its use and type. If he doesn't approve, she is sure she will hear about it. Shai leaves out the ingredients for dinner and decides to make the full recipe and leave leftovers in the fridge. She can place them next to the leftovers from last night. 

Having time to kill while the steaks marinate, Shai takes the initiative and cleans out the fridge to make room for the fresh food. She empties the takeaway containers into the garbage disposal and throws the containers in recycling. She arranges the food as orderly as she did the dry goods. Hopefully, this won't come back to bite her. But this is also part of her job if she is to serve as chef as well as cleaner; a clean and ordered kitchen to work in. If there ever comes a time when he is home long enough to speak to, Shai will happily explain her reasoning behind her kitchen organization. You're doing it again, she thinks. You're sounding like a neglected spouse, and it's only day two.

Without dinner conversation, she decides to read while she eats. The book is one she has read before, never tiring of the protagonist's antics and the romance story woven in between his daring deeds. Shai would have to label herself a hopeless romantic, always rooting for the lovers in the end. Her mother instilled in her her love of reading, her father her love of music. Both encouraged her in her artistic endeavours. Shai wonders where she would be today had they both not passed away. Not a domestic servant, not at Shinra, and definitely not for General Sephiroth.

From dinner until bedtime, Shai busies herself with tidying the kitchen, taking a shower, and beginning a new sketch, this one of the flowers she bought today. They sit on her dresser in a glass pitcher she was forced to use as a makeshift vase. She does several sketches before calling it a night. She lies down in bed and opens her novel. Shai remembers finishing up the chapter she was reading at dinner, and setting the book on the bed. She intended to read more, but must have fallen asleep. She dreams of a bright figure with one wing hovering over her before she falls into darkness.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai understands having to work late two nights in a row, maybe even three or four. She understands that sometimes a challenging career demands weekend hours as well, but two weeks? It has been fourteen monotonous days since she began her work here and in that span she has seen the general for a handful of hours, and that is a generous estimate. She stopped cooking full meals after the fourth night, having to toss expired leftovers into the garbage disposal more than once. She thought she had a solution. Knowing he never takes leftovers from the fridge for lunch, Shai assumed it was because he lacked the means to reheat them. She innocently approached him early in that first week with the proposal to warm the food at home and deliver it to him personally. She was met with a stern order that under no uncertain terms is she to go to his office.

On the bright side, he is courteous enough to tell her when he will miss dinner, either by text or verbally on the few occasions she sees him after training in the morning. She always makes sure she looks productive when he is home, so he is not thinking she is lounging around while he is at work, and most days, Shai can find something to clean. Though, to be honest, she spends her days doing the very thing she tries to avoid; lounging around. 

She does not do it in the living area. She has the sense to keep her inactivity confined to her bedroom. She completed her novel days ago, and has drawn every piece of furniture in the condo. She even put together a still life on her dresser to give her something new to do. But to spend her days being unable to fulfill the basic requirements of her job, is driving her crazy. The only room left to clean, that has not been touched with a dust cloth or vacuum since her arrival, is his bedroom. The door remains closed day and night. She has no idea its dimensions or decor or the size of his en suite bathroom. So much time has passed, that she is reluctant to ask him his expectations with respect to his room.

In fact, he has not given her any feedback, positive or negative, regarding her work here, or even her being here. He has clearly made the decision to deal with her by not dealing with her. Is this how her life is to be now? No one is saying she has to stay. She still has her client list from before, but working here has allowed her to live in a real home again, not some glorified closet converted into a studio apartment. If she is honest, she likes the money she is earning. She already has a nice nest egg started. As difficult as it has been trying to get to know a specter, she's not sure she wants to return to her previous life. 

Maybe she hasn't given it enough time. After all, it has only been two weeks, but they have been the longest two weeks she's experienced since the death of her parents and the loss of her voice. Even Dr. Moreau's attention has tapered off. She would text or visit those first few days, but Shai has not heard from her now in over a week. Maybe she should contact her. Invite her to dinner, so she doesn't have to dine alone. 

She's making something simple tonight: sauteed chicken sandwiches on focaccia bread. Moreau takes no time in answering her text; I'll be there! She arrives at five thirty and brings a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. 

“I hate drinking by myself,” says Moreau, uncorking the bottle.

 _I agree_. Shai produces two wine glasses. Moreau fills them half way and hands one to Shai.

“What shall we drink to?” Shai sets down her glass to answer, first writing it down, then signing.

_Our health? Friendship? Thick head of hair?_

“How about to successful working relationships and budding friendships?”

 _Perfect_. They ring their glasses together and Moreau takes a healthy sip of the wine. Shai sips hers and returns to sauteing the chicken and mixing the mayonnaise, mustard, and rosemary spread, all the while wondering if Moreau's toast is referring to the two women or Shai and her elusive client or both. When the meat is cooked through and juices run clear, Shai places the chicken breasts on the slices of focaccia and tops it with the spread. Sandwiches prepared, she serves Moreau, seated informally at the island bar. The ladies clink their glasses again and drink. To Moreau's surprise, Shai begins to cry. She sets down her glass immediately and places her hand on Shai's shoulder.

“Shai! What is it?” Shai opens the sketchbook and begins to write frantically on the paper, page after page, in quick succession, in writing barely legible. Moreau waits patiently for her to finish. It doesn't take a detective to know who this is about. It's just a matter of to what extent. Shai passes the book to Moreau. She doesn't bother translating her message into sign language. The doctor mumbles as she reads, pausing occasionally when Shai's writing is closer to scribbles than letters or tear drops have blurred the words.

“The general has barely been home...you never see him...not one dinner...cleaned every surface in the condo except his bedroom...feel useless...should resign.” Moreau sighs and closes the book. She takes both of Shai's hands in hers.

“First and foremost, please do not resign. Like you mentioned, it has only been two weeks. If conditions do not improve, say, after a month, then you may do what is best for you. But please, _please_ give this another chance. I will speak to the general.” Shai eyes widen and, panicked, she shakes her head abruptly side to side. She forgets herself and who she is with and begins to sign, her movements and gestures moving too quickly for Moreau to keep up.

 _No, no , no, no! You cannot! He will know I have talked with you! He will know how I feel! Please do not!_ Moreau grabs her wild hands, presses them together, then places them on Shai's lap.

“I have no idea what you just said, but I can guess that you do not want me to say anything.” Shai nods. Moreau smiles reassuringly at her.

“OK. OK. Mum's the word. Now, how about we enjoy our dinner. Hmm? It looks amazing!” 

After dinner, Moreau and Shai finished off the bottle of wine over dessert. Seated on the couch, bathed in the light of the fire, the doctor talked about topics ranging from why she went from genetic research into counselling to why she never married. Shai was more than happy to just listen. Half past eight, Moreau said her goodbyes and assured Shai that she would not mention this to the general. She thanked the young woman for a delicious dinner and for not giving her resignation. The elevator bell rang and Moreau waved until the doors closed.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

When Moreau walks into her condo, she shuts the door, and leans back against it. Her thoughts are thrown into confusion. What am I going to do with that man? I told Shai I would not interfere, but I can't just sit idly by while he plays mind games with her. She stands upright, her decision made, and takes her phone from her pocket. She taps Sephiroth's extension on the keypad.

“I hope you can forgive me, Shai,” she says to herself, seconds before her call is answered. 

“Hello, general. Are you busy?”

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Sephiroth answers the knock on his office door, and is nearly bowled over by Moreau charging past him. 

“Is there something wrong, doctor?” he asks, shutting the door, and returning to sit behind his desk. Open in front of him is an oversized book, that he is quick to close and conceal with a report.

“We need to talk, Sephiroth.” Damn, he thinks to himself, she has that edge to her voice; the tone of the disappointed parent. It's a role she fell into when he was a child and he would tamper with Hojo's experiments to make the results inconclusive.

“What have I done or failed to do now?” 

“It concerns Shai.” His eyes flash, and Moreau knows she has struck a nerve.

“What about her?” 

“Whatever mindfuckery you're playing on her, stop.” No, this is not a disappointed parent, or even an annoyed counsellor. She has passed that point. This is 160 centimeters of enraged Sybelline Moreau.

“What makes you think I would do such a thing?”

“To get her to resign.” Another flash.

“She's resigned?”

“No, but it is only matter of time if you keep treating her like she's invisible. I just left your place. She broke down in tears while eating dinner.”

“You were having dinner with her?” 

“She invited me. Clearly, she is tired of eating on her own. What have you been doing every evening that is so damn important?! And weekends!” Moreau begins to pace, her temperament that of a small canine bristling at a larger rival.

“She has done everything expected of her, and more, I might add! Your place is cleaner than when you moved in! She cooks better than that sad excuse for a chef in Shinra's executive restaurant! She's up at the crack of dawn to-”

“Sybelline.”

“You're not even letting her do your laundry, and-”

“Sybelline.”

“She puts up with the stares and gossip. You never gave this arrangement a cha-”

Sybelline!”

“What?!” He throws the report aside, spins the oversized book around, and shoves it towards her. Moreau picks it up, reads the title, and flips through the pages, pausing to read over a page or two. The flush that had coloured her face has paled, leaving behind red blooms on her cheeks. What was once anger, is now embarrassment.

“This is what you have been doing?”


	5. Getting to Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK. Clearly cliffhangers are not popular, _especially_ if you do not have a chapter to follow it up right away. I appreciate everyone's patience, and I hope #5 doesn't disappoint. 
> 
> A big THANK YOU to all who left comments and reviews! You make writing this an amazing experience.

“You've been learning sign language?” she asks. 

“Yes.” He stands, walks around to Moreau, and leans against his desk. She sits down in the chair opposite him. With the book open across her lap, she continues to browse through its pages. She attempts a word or phrase here and there, depending on its complexity, and soon wishes she had Sephiroth's intellect and memory. It is going to take her weeks or months to learn what he has undoubtedly accomplished in a fortnight. She closes the book, but can't bear to look him in the eye.

“I am so sorry, Sephiroth. I jumped to conclusions.”

“Yes, you did.”

“But I thought-”

“You thought wrong.” Moreau looks up at him. If he is suppressing anger or exasperation with her, he is doing it well. Moreau sees disappointment. She sees fatigue. She sees a tinge of sadness that wrenches her heart. He expects behaviour like this from the professor, from other white coats, but not her. And here she is, barging into his office, spewing accusations, making judgments, and assuming the worst of him. And here he is, devoting his dinner and evening hours to expanding his knowledge of a new language so he may communicate with a woman that he didn't ask for or want in his life.

“I am an old fool.”

“You are.”

“Can you ever forgive me?”

“You must make me a promise.”

“If it is within my power, naturally.” 

“In eight days time, I have an appointment upstairs.” Moreau's face becomes solemn.

“I do not want her to know what it is for. You must promise me, Sybelline. Promise me you will never mention my 'treatments' with _him_ to Shai.” Moreau's whole body tenses upon hearing his condition for her absolution. She says nothing.

“Sybelline! Promise me you will tell her nothing!” 

“Yes! Yes, of course. You have my word. But how do you intend to keep them from her?” 

“Disinformation.”

“Disinformation?” 

“Yes.”

“She's not the enemy, Sephiroth.”

“I never said she was.” When Sephiroth starts using military terms and thinking strategically, Moreau knows when to move on to a new topic.

“Where will you recuperate? You're not going to stay on the 68th floor, are you? In the specimen containment unit?” He doesn't respond. Moreau feels her blood pressure skyrocket. Her voice rises an octave as well.

“Sephiroth, you can't!” 

“Where else do you suggest I stay?”

“My place.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I can't- I won't put you through that again.” Sephiroth is no stranger to experimentation. He has been subjected to it, in some form or another, his whole life. But Hojo's so-called treatments are something new and altogether sinister, worse than anything Sephiroth's mind and body have experienced before. The experiments have progressively worsened as he has matured into a man. Moreau has had intense discussions with the professor over their purpose. Sybelline argues that they are nothing more than torture while Hojo expounds on their benefits to science and mankind.

When these treatments began, Hojo kept Sephiroth in the SCU for the duration of the treatment, including his recuperation. After seeing him lying on the floor of the unit, unconscious and in nothing but a hospital gown, Moreau demanded that he recover at home, giving Hojo little choice but to step back and silently comply. She made arrangements to have him brought to the 63rd floor that day. For forty eight hours, she cared for him, nursing him through a high fever, nausea, headache, and tonic spasms, sudden and continuous muscular contractions throughout his body. At the end of the second day, when he was well enough to leave his bed, he found Moreau exhausted and crying in the living room. She denied it had anything to do with him and said she was just tired. He vowed then to never allow her to look after him again.

“You must allow me to handle this on my own, Sybelline.”

“I will do as you ask. I'm not happy about it, but I will do it.”

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Moreau stays for another half hour giving instructions and advice to Sephiroth on how to better coexist with a domestic. First, she tells him to go home after work. Let Shai know when that will be, so she can have dinner prepared. As for meals, don't be afraid to tell her your likes and dislikes. If you prefer something specific one evening, let her know that morning. You have a voice, Sephiroth. Use it. Also, stop sending your clothes out to be cleaned. The condo has a washer and dryer. Let Shai do your laundry. She can only dust and vacuum so much. If something requires to be professionally cleaned, she'll know. You are not her first client. And for goodness sake! Let her clean your bedroom and bath!

When he confides that he is uncomfortable being alone with her, Moreau has advice for that too.

“Why don't you ask her to help you unpack the den? She'll get to know you a bit better and you will get accustomed to being in her company.”

“Is that the goal of this arrangement? For her to get to know me better and vice versa?” Moreau sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.

“Sephiroth. She will be able to do her job more effectively if she is learned in your habits and preferences. And it is simply a nice gesture if you take an interest in her. Don't give me that look! That's not what I meant!”

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

He arrives home at half past ten. The lights of Midgar and a lone table lamp are all that light the living area. Elongated shadows, stretching from the furniture in shades of grey and black, break in two as he passes through them on his way to his bedroom. He glances down the hallway. Lamplight shines from her room, cutting a crisp angle on the carpet. He huffs in annoyance, but shouldn't be surprised. It's not the first time she has fallen asleep with the light on and the door wide open. However, when he hones his sense of hearing, he detects her soft, steady breathing instead of snoring, and the whisper of paper as she turns a page. He reaches his room, turns the handle, then stops, Moreau's parting advice fresh in his mind.

“Be with her like you are with me.”

“Stubborn and provoking?”

“Sephiroth.”

“Fine. I will be on my best behaviour.”

He releases the handle and walks towards her room. Reaching her doorway, he pauses before knocking. She is sitting on the bed, her legs crossed, leaning over an opened cookbook, a finger following along a line of text. She is writing words in a list format in a notebook to her right. Her hair is free, spilling over her shoulders in unruly, loose curls past her face and neck, blanketing her arms and back. Her ice blue eyes seem to sparkle as they move from page to paper. He knocks. She jumps, a single curly lock dropping over her forehead. The pen she is holding pressed a jagged line of ink across her list. He lipreads the word damn as she closes the cookbook.

“Forgive me for startling you.” Shai grabs the pocket sketchbook and pencil.

“You need not bother,” he says, as he steps into the room,“I want to employ what I have learned.” She looks at him, puzzled.

_What you have learned?_

“Yes. I have been spending my evenings studying textbooks and instructional videos on sign language so that you will no longer need to write in your book.” Shai's features widen with shock long enough for her to realize her impropriety, the embarrassment that swiftly follows warming the center of her cheeks. The proper response is to show gratitude and admiration, not drop your jaw in disbelief. 

_Thank you, general._

“You're welcome, but it was a logical course of action if we are to have an open line of communication while sharing this residence.”

_Well, I am still thankful._ Sephiroth simply nods in reply, unaccustomed to receiving words of thanks for efforts not related to his military expertise or lethality in combat. A curious silence falls between the two. They continue to gaze at one another. Not in some contest of wills, but out of a kind of wonderment. Two people brought together into a situation new and unique to both of them. A young woman in the presence of a famous military leader, trying to separate myth from reality, and a young man, raised in a restricted and solitary environment, learning the behaviour and mannerisms of a independent woman; both seeing the other as a curiosity to comprehend. Shai is the first to speak after the general's eyes momentarily brighten, forcing her to break her focus on him. 

_Anything you need, general?_

“Yes. I wanted to let you know that I will be home for dinner this week.” She stares at him blankly for a second or two, before reaching for the notebook and holding it out for him. He steps closer and accepts it. On the page, is a menu for the following week: pasta dishes, chicken, fish, even a stew. It is clear she puts a great deal of effort into planning meals, in creating well-rounded menus. He thinks back on Moreau's words.

“This is very good, but you do not have to cook a large dinner every day. You can substitute some of these with lighter fare.”

_What would you prefer?_

“I have a wide palate. I'm sure whatever you decide will be fine.” He hands the notebook back to her.

“As you know, you do not have to worry about me for breakfast and lunch. I eat both in my office. If, by chance, I should be home for one or the other, I will let you know beforehand.” Shai begins to take notes. He decides to continue.

“I am generally home by six. I like to bathe and change into more relaxing attire before I eat. If dinner is served by seven, that will give me time to do both.” He notices she has drawn clocks at several points next to her menu.

“On mornings that I am in the dojo, you can have dinner prepared by six thirty. I bathe after I have finished training, so extra time in the evening will be unnecessary.” She flips the notebook to start a fresh page. She sets the pen down.

_What do you like to drink with dinner?_

“Water is fine. If I wish something else, I will either purchase it myself or tell you.” She jots down an abbreviated version of her question and his answer, then thinks of another. Shai recalls a teacher who once said there are no stupid questions. She is about to test that theory.

_Do you eat desserts, general?_

“No.” Well, she thinks, it may not have been a stupid question, but she feels stupid for having asked it. No more triple chocolate cake chased with a bottle of white wine with Dr. Moreau. Her imagination conjures an image of her enjoying the same with the general by firelight and Shai feels her cheeks heat up again. The slight curve of his lips tells her that not only has he noticed, but she needs to keep the conversation flowing.

_Do you invite guests over for dinner?_ And the stupid questions keep coming.

“As a rule, no. Occasionally, Dr, Moreau will invite herself over.” That raises all sorts of questions for Shai, but she knows to keep these particular queries to herself. 

“Is the information I have given you helpful?”

_Yes! Very much so. Thank you._

“Then I am going to retire for the evening.”

_Good night, general._

“Good night, Shai.” He turns on his heel, his hair swirling gracefully about him, and leaves. Shai waits until she can no longer hear him before she allows the whole surreality of the last half hour hit her like a slap to the face. After days of silence or one-sided dialogue, he comes knocking on her door offering information she would have preferred to have had on her first day. Careful, Shai. The next thing you know you'll be cleaning his room and doing his laundry.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Sephiroth has crossed the living room and is about to open his bedroom door, when an image of an angel of conscience appears in his head, resplendent and awe-inspiring. But instead of a small replica of himself in celestial regalia, his version looks suspiciously like Sybelline. Her wings are strapped to her back with elastic bands and a halo constructed of a gold glitter boa, wire, and headband, is suspended over her head. Her lips are pursed together and her arms are crossed. He can hear her voice as clearly as if she is standing before him as a luminescent heavenly figure and not a series of chemical processes in his neocortex and thalamus. He reluctantly engages in an inner dialogue with her.

Haven't you forgotten something?

Not that I'm aware of, but if you're here, clearly I have.

Meal times? Eating together? Maybe even at the same table?

Yes. You're right. It did not come to mind.

Please think on it. Remember, if you want to get comfortable being around her, it helps if you two are in the same room.

Noted. Now go away. I curse the day you ever told me the story of Hermas and tutelary spirits. You poisoned a developing, young mind and now I have you corrupting my thoughts.

Good night, Sephiroth.

And as quickly as she appeared, she is gone.


	6. Bon Appétit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late posting! RL is getting in the way. I was not meant to homeschool my child. Big thank you to teachers, because that is a job I simply could not do. 
> 
> Also, I know there is no France in the Final Fantasy world. Please either excuse or ignore my French references.
> 
> Thank you to all you left comments, reviews, and kudos! They mean a lot! I appreciate the time you take to write them!

Shai's week is shaping up to be quite different from the previous two. The dissimilarities begin that morning, shortly after she finishes her breakfast. She is closing the dishwasher when she hears the chimes of the doorbell. Looking through the peephole, she expects to see Dr. Moreau. Instead, she is surprised to see her caller is barely visible in the concave lens. She opens the door to reveal a woman in business dress that makes Moreau's petite shape look hulking by comparison. She introduces herself simply as the general's secretary. She apologizes for the intrusion, hands Shai a sealed envelope, and bids her good day. The elevator doors close behind her before Shai has time to register what has happened or can respond appropriately.

Shutting the door, Shai looks over the envelope. It is blank save for her name in beautifully written script centered on the face. She tears it open along the top fold and pulls out a sheet of paper with an elegant linen finish and the general's letterhead. On one side, in neat print, is the general's schedule for the week. On the other, is a concise note with instructions written in the same script as her name.

From now on, I will leave my bedroom available   
for you to clean. My bathroom as well. You will   
find my laundry in a hamper beside my dresser.   
Additionally, I would be amenable to you   
joining me for evening meals.

Shai's initial reaction is to burst out into silent laughter. I knew it, she thinks to herself. I knew it! I jinxed myself last night. Serves me right. I wanted more work and that is exactly what I have been given. The second half of the note? Well, that has produced a physical response similar to seeing him for the first time. Her heart is beating a little faster. Her hands are trembling lightly and she feels like she has enough nervous energy to scour and scrub the entire condo. She will be sitting next to him. At the dining table. Eating. Her anxious mind is blending and shaping scenarios and playing them in front of her like a poorly edited film of slapstick antics. She takes three cleansing breaths deep enough to drop her shoulders a little lower with each exhale. Don't you worry. You got this, girl. 

She sits down at the island with the schedule and pulls out her menu for the week. He works Monday through Friday. Four days he'll be home for dinner. Thursday, he has a dinner engagement. Two of the five mornings, he trains. Although she has more specifics to work with than before, there are still some variables left unanswered. Would he prefer to come home to a lighter meal on his heavier work days, like today? Or when he is in the office for half the hours? She hopes he allows for a learning curve this week. Shai knows what choices she would make, but her preferences do not matter. She decides to correspond the simpler meals with the days he is in the dojo. She adjusts the grocery list accordingly, places the schedule in the cookbook, and gets ready to go on her morning errands. 

Dressed for a brisk late summer morning, Shai locks the door behind her and presses the down arrow for the elevator. As she waits for it to ascend, she notices, for the first time, a security card reader on the left side of the second elevator. She recalls Moreau telling her that it is an express, but in the short while she has lived here, she has never heard it travel past this floor. She is about to test her ID against the card reader when her elevator arrives. Shai enters an empty car. She no longer stresses about the stares and open gossip directed at her during her elevator rides. She gives the offenders a wide, toothy smile and, more often than not, it diverts their eyes elsewhere or shushes their mouths completely. 

She walks to her apartment first to select a few more cookbooks and another novel to read, then goes to the grocery store to place her weekly food order and arrange for it to be delivered in the early afternoon. Tonight's dinner is chicken cordon bleu with buttery rice and a baby green salad, an ambitious dinner, for sure. The sides she is no stranger to, but the chicken is a first. Perhaps a first time recipe is not the wisest choice for the general's first dinner with her, but Shai is confident enough in her cooking skills to believe she can pull it off. The proprietors shout their farewells to Shai as she leaves the store, equating her mutism with being hearing impaired. She doesn't have the heart to correct them, so she grins and bears it. 

Shai's plans when she arrives home is to clean the dining area and living area, especially the leg of the living room that is in front of the fireplace. Given that she dusted and vacuumed it less than a week ago, there really isn't any dust to wipe away or dirt particles to suction. But just knowing that he will be home this evening, has Shai in hyper-cleaning mode. Truthfully, she doesn't know what has come over her. General Sephiroth is not her first high profile client, or her wealthiest. He's not even her strangest. That appellation is held by an eccentric little old lady who had Shai wash her hair in front of her bathroom sink so that she may pretend she was at the beauty salon. She'd provide individual voices not only for the imaginary patrons having their hair done, but for Shai as well. No, definitely not her strangest. But he does bear the title of her most intriguing. Yes. Definitely. His eyes, his bearing, his speech, everything about the man captivates all who come in contact with him. No, her hyper-vigilance is simply a matter of her wanting to please her client. He made the effort to learn how to communicate with her. The very least she can do is prove to him that she was worth his time.

Shai finishes off the dining room before taking time for lunch. She shares her time between a ham and havarti sandwich and crunchy garlic dills with reviewing the instructions for the cordon bleu. Not long after finishing the last bite of pickle, she receives a text from the welcome desk in the lobby; her groceries have arrived. It takes her a good hour to transport the food to the condo and store it away. Afterwards, she hurries to dust and vacuum the living room, determined to have it spotless by four. 

When Shai preps for a meal, whether the recipes are new or familiar, the counter surrounding the stove looks like something out of a cooking show. By quarter of six, clear mixing bowls of every size are filled with fresh raspberries, dried cranberries, crumbled feta, diced yellow onion and long grain white rice. Liquid measuring cups are filled with measured amounts of whipping cream and chicken stock. Plates are stacked with halved chicken breasts, ham, and cheese. All she is missing are the chef's hat and apron. She takes the next fifteen minutes to fill two goblets with iced water and put them in the fridge to keep chilled. She sets the table with the general at the head and Shai to his right. She is as thorough in her preparedness as she can be. The only thing she is forgetting is to breathe. She feels her heartbeat ramping up again, a slight tremor in her fingertips. No. She is a professional. She'll be fine once she is busy in the kitchen, doing her job.

The digital clock on the oven can not have read six zero zero for more than twenty seconds before Shai hears the front door open. Despite what the photo ops in newspapers, newsreels, and magazines show, the general does not always wear leather trousers, boots that reach his thighs, SOLDIER suspenders, and a long leather coat with silver pauldrons. When not reviewing troops or involved with their training, he switches up his days. He wears anything from dress trousers and cotton-linen dress shirts to cashmere sweaters over slim-straight jeans to cotton shirts over slim fit trousers. Always black or shades of grey. All immaculate and professionally pressed. Polished dress shoes or chelsea boots. His hair never tied back. Like all aspects of his life, his style is flawless. 

Today, he walks in wearing a black v-neck t-shirt pulled taut over his chest and around his arms just enough to make the viewer pause a second or two longer, and a pair of black casual trousers. He has at least a dozen files in manila folders tucked under his arm. He nods at Shai, who is busying herself in the kitchen. She puts the tea towel down on the counter and smiles back at him.

_Good evening, general_. He gives her a look similar to the one he gave her her first day, after she returned his declination of lunch with a smile; somewhere between puzzlement and humour. 

“Good evening.”

_Dinner will be ready by seven, as you requested_. He sets the files down next to his place at the dining table. 

“Thank you.” Passing by the island, he gives the individual bowls of ingredients a glancing over, then continues on into his bedroom. Shai chalks up his inspection as either curiosity or distrust. Soon, the sounds and smells of dinner waft throughout the kitchen. The cordon bleu is simmering on the stove, the walnuts for the salad are browning in the oven, and Shai is mixing the red wine vinaigrette.

She has finished tossing the salad in the dressing and is placing the individual chicken servings on their plates when she hears his door open. She neatly spoons the rice next to the chicken and garnishes it with parsley. The iced water is already placed at their settings. As he seats himself at the table, Shai sets the cherry wood salad bowl down between their settings and goes back for the main dishes. She carefully sets his plate down first, then hers.

“Thank you, Shai.”

_Is there anything else you need, general?_

“No, thank you. May I ask what we are dining on this evening?” Shai grabs the menu off the island, hands it to him, and points at Monday. He reads it silently to himself and hands it back to her.

Still, Sephiroth looks over the meal with mild surprise. He had no idea these were the type of dinners she was preparing for him, but he should have. To be so oblivious is unacceptable. His attention to detail. His keen sense of observation. His preternatural sight. Every advantage he has in battle, he is incapable of executing in his own home. He can practically hear Moreau's motherly tone scolding him; all you had to do was open the fridge.

Shai seats herself and waits for the general to make the first move. Her mother's etiquette lessons are ticking off in her head: keep your elbows off the table, never talk with your mouth full, taste your food before seasoning it, only cut one or two bites at a time, eat slowly and pace yourself, and always take your cues from your host from the start of the meal to the end. Shai discreetly watches the general, removing what look to her to be reports from the folders. He angles them at 45° to allow him to read them without the risk of spills or splatters. Once organized to his satisfaction, he lifts his napkin, unfolds it, and lays it across his lap. Shai follows suit. He begins his dinner by cleanly slicing into the chicken. Shai begins as well, her fork messily spooning up a helping of rice, but despite her best efforts, several grains fall back onto her plate and the table as she lifts it to her mouth. Her mother would be appalled.

As she eats, she chances a glance or two at the general. She isn't sure what she was expecting to see. A military grunt shovelling food into his mouth or some other stereotypical image, but that is definitely not what she observed. He is precise. He is efficient. He is thorough. He does not rush. He is everything Shai is not. She is relieved that he has a sizable appetite. When dinner concludes, the chicken is gone as is the rice and two servings of salad. She hears the clink of cutlery against his plate and looks to see he has finished. Perhaps the portions were too small? 

_Did you have enough to eat?_

“Yes. Thank you, Shai.” He gathers the papers together, taps them on the table to align them, and places them back in the files. He closes the folders and leans back in his chair, his eyes on her.

“Dr. Moreau sings your praises as a chef. She is right to do so.” Shai can feel her cheeks warm and she can't even place the blame on residual heat from the kitchen.

_Thank you, general. That means a lot coming from you_. He rises from the table so quickly that Shai thinks for a moment that she has said something offensive.

“Yes, well. You're welcome.” If Shai had been able to peer closer, past the stray strands of silver, hidden within the subtle shadows cast by lengths of fringe, she would have seen a slight colouring high on the general's cheeks. But he does not give her the opportunity. He picks up the files and moves into the living room. Shai clears away the place settings. She begins tidying up the kitchen. She soaks the pans in soapy water while clearing the counters and loading the dishwasher. She wipes down the dining table, counters and stove top. She washes and dries the pans, then programs the dishwasher for a full cycle. Shai ends her work drying off the island counter-top and hanging the tea towel on its hook. 

Sephiroth has reclined on the couch. An arched floor lamp diffuses a pale light overhead as he continues to read the reports he brought home, flipping the reviewed pages onto an ordered pile beside him on the floor. The firelight influences the light within its reach, bouncing shadows across fabric, wood, and stone. The sounds of Shai cleaning the kitchen change from the clang of pots to the drone of the dishwasher. In his peripheral vision, he sees her wiping the counters as her day comes to an end. 

Despite the monotony of the work he is currently doing, and 3rd class cadet reports are monotonous, he must concede that right now he feels at ease, relaxed. Dare he say, content. He has not had a meal like that since, well, a while. Moreau is correct in her assessment of the chef in the restaurant upstairs. He is sure Shinra politics are in play, otherwise the man would be out of a job. Sephiroth would bring his food home, half eaten, because consuming the entire entree would turn his stomach. He blames Sybelline for all the takeaway containers. Take it home and reheat it, she'd say, it's bound to taste better. It was a lesson in futility. But tonight's dinner? His only regret is he had been so preoccupied, he did not truly savour every mouthful.

_May I get you anything else, general?_

“No, thank you.” 

_OK. I will be in my room if you need me. My door will be open_.

“Thank you, Shai.” She smiles, then disappears down the hallway. Her mannerism of smiling at him he finds peculiar. In every instance she has given him this expression of happiness, he has not acted in a way to deserve it. 

Shai sits down on the edge of the bed. She undoes her hair bands and loosens the curls with her fingers, spilling thick tendrils about her like a veil. She flops back on the bed, her arms out wide, and closes her eyes. This has been her plan all day. After dinner, after cleaning up the kitchen, after making sure he didn't need anything else, she would spend the evening in her bedroom. She would either start the novel she brought from her apartment or begin a drawing from the sketches of the still life. So, why is she lying here with no motivation to do one or the other? Maybe she should change into her pyjamas and turn in early. It's not even nine thirty. She can't go to sleep now. Then what should she do? She thinks of the fire burning and wonders if the general is still reviewing his reports.

His review of the remainder of the reports takes him much longer than anticipated. His eyes see names, service numbers, cognitive ability test results, medical exams, and physical trials and yet the words, numbers, symbols, lose their cohesion and jumble together. Rereading the material does not ensure memory retention. Something is vexing him and he does not know what. Yes, he was trapped in his office all day doing evaluations, but that is nothing new. He had to bring work home with him, but it is not the first time. He is bathed and relaxing comfortably in casual clothing. He had an excellent meal. Then why can't he concentrate? A man of his intelligence should not be so easily distracted.

With a mixture of relief and frustration, he throws the last report down on the pile. Sleep will not come easy in his present state. In the past, a few minutes of focused meditation has helped to quiet his mind. It is worth a try. He leans his head back on the arm of the couch and folds his hands across his stomach. Closing his eyes, he zones in on the repetitive rhythm of the final cycle of the dishwasher, but soon his focus begins to wander from the audio to the visual. He recalls the stray strands of her hair, pulled loose from the elastic band, coiled into ringlets down the nape of her neck as she stood at the sink finishing the dishes.


	7. A Slow Turn Away From Alone

Shai lost her parents and her voice six years ago and has been on her own ever since, relocating to Midgar from the coast because a big city afforded her more opportunities. Her inheritance gave her the means to move and enough to live on until she found employment. She fell into being a domestic by happenstance. Sure, the hours could be long, and it was not always a Monday to Friday job, but she was her own boss. It allowed her to earn a substantial enough wage to live on the plate in a clean and safe neighbourhood and supply herself with the necessities of life such as food and clothing, with the occasional book or pencil set. 

Though an affable person, Shai's mutism brings with it a sense of isolation and erects a communication barrier around her. She does not have a wide circle of friends outside of her relationships with her clients. Her neighbours are friendly, but otherwise keep to themselves. Her social interactions are limited to store clerks and her landlady. People see her sign and tend to shy away. But though she is alone, Shai tries not to think of herself as lonely. She has her books to escape in and her art to liberate her soul and chase away the demons. She's a survivor, in every sense of the word.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

If Professor Hojo had had his way, Sephiroth would have been raised in isolation with nothing but doctors, research assistants, and orderlies as his only human contact. Nothing, but needles, restraints, sterile surfaces, and tests. Nothing, but the sound-proofed enclosure of the specimen containment unit with its circular polycarbonate chamber and padded floor. But President Shinra was shrewd enough to realize that Hojo would fixate on the child's alien DNA, and neglect the boy's humanity.

So, he hired Dr. Sybelline Moreau to foster Sephiroth's human side, assigning her the final word in all matters concerning his mental and emotional welfare. Moreau became Sephiroth's link to a world outside of the 68th floor. She could not control what was being inflicted on him physically, and that pained her, but by the gods, she could control everything else and she devoted her life to making his as sane as she could. Despite her efforts, though, even taking accommodations in the same building to be close to him, Sephiroth has spent most of his life on his own.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai is seated at the island bar for lunch, crunching on her last pickle. Her nose is planted firmly between the pages of her Complete Guide to Fish cookbook, reviewing tonight's dinner recipe of bourbon pan seared halibut. She is doing her best not to take notice of the general wearing his kendo hakama without the gi, standing an arm's length away from her. He is guzzling down a bottle of water. Thin rivulets stream from his lips and down his chin, droplets cascade down the length of his throat to spread out on the smooth expanse of his chest. Shai buries her nose deeper to hide the flush in her cheeks from just glancing at his flexing bicep. She thought the peculiar feeling she had seeing him dressed in his kendo uniform was something she could manage, but the general shirtless? Given that she has read the same sentence more than once, forwards and backwards, is a sure sign she has no control whatsoever. On the plus side, she has his schedule and now knows when she can avoid such encounters.

Thankfully, he finishes satisfying his thirst and goes to his bedroom to bathe and dress for work. Shai can breathe normally now. She begins her new assignment today; dusting and vacuuming his bedroom. Strip away the feminine flourishes and masculine touches and a man's bedroom is no different than a woman's. Each has a place to sleep and a place to store their clothing. It shouldn't matter whose head lies on the pillow or whose shirts hang in the closet or who brushes their hair in front of the mirror. The general puts his pants on every morning no differently than anyone else.

He nods his goodbye as he passes by her on his way out the door. Shai grabs her cleaning supplies and steps into the general's bedroom for the first time. She turns on the lights, twelve bulbs recessed into the ceiling throughout the room and controlled with a dimmer switch. To her right, where Shai assumed there would be windows, is the general's bed. It is a king-size behemoth with an upholstered wing-back headboard patterned with diamond tufts and sewn in charcoal grey linen. The duvet, bedding, and pillows are accented in colours that compliment the dark shade of the headboard and the wood grain of the furniture. The bedroom set is designed of a contemporary rusticness and is constructed of the finest reclaimed wood. There are two nightstands, a chest of drawers, and a dresser with a matching mirror. The wall opposite the bed is lined with sliding doors of solid walnut, like the doors in the foyer. Open them and you will find an organized closet arranged with drawers, open adjustable shelving, shoe racks, and poles at varied heights to hang his clothing. It's another beautiful room in a beautiful residence. Shai looks at all the wood and goes back to the kitchen for the polish.

It takes her the better part of the afternoon to thoroughly clean his room, and Shai is thankful that tonight's light meal is not time consuming. By five thirty, she is stirring the bourbon and balsamic vinegar in with caramelized honey for the fish. Next, the vinaigrette for the salad. She chops, slices, and peels. She mixes, grates, and tosses. The front door opens promptly at six as Shai is sprinkling the sliced almonds on the salad. She notices he has brought no work home with him and her pesky butterflies begin to flutter nervously. 

_Good evening, general_.

"Good evening, Shai."

He inspects the ingredients as he walks to his room and Shai wonders if this is going to become a nightly ritual. She forms beds of wilted spinach on their plates and places the fillets in the center, drizzling the bourbon sauce in a zigzag pattern on top of the fish. She spoons glazed carrots next to the halibut and garnishes them with dried parsley. It looks like a meal out of a culinary magazine. She only hopes it tastes as good as it looks. She puts the salad on the table and sets the water goblets to the right of the place setting, above the knife and spoon. For an added touch, Shai places her menu where he can see it.

She is in the kitchen retrieving the entrées when he steps out of his bedroom. She politely waits for him to sit before placing his dinner in front of him. Shai sees the same expression of subdued surprise that he wore yesterday, then he seems to shake it off. He reads over the menu as he unfolds his napkin. Shai sits down. Soon, the clinking of forks against porcelain and the occasional sounds of mastication are all that can be heard. Both parties pay far more attention to pulling apart flakes of fish or stabbing salad greens or drinking water than is necessary. Shai should have warned him before they sat down; it is extremely difficult for her to make dinner conversation and not end up eating cold food. In the past, her dinner partner had obligingly took the lead and entertained her with stories and anecdotes from their lives. If they wished to include her, they would limit conversation to questions with yes or no answers. She debates whether she should say something now, but feels too much time has passed to just blurt it out. They finish their meal with not a word passed between them. 

"Thank you, Shai."

_You are most welcome, general_. She clears off the table and begins her work on the kitchen. The general has taken up his customary place on the couch in front of the fireplace, flames flickering behind the glass. His feet rest on the coffee table and his left arm is draped over the backrest. Held aloft in front of him with his right hand, is a leather bound book similar to the one he was reading the night of Shai's arrival. In less than an hour's time, Shai has finished wiping off the counters and shining the stove top. The dishwasher rumbles to life. She tops off the fruit bowl with some tangerines and bananas and hangs up the tea towel to dry. She moves to stand to the right of the couch and waits until she has the general's attention. His eyes rise to meet hers.

_Anything else, general?_

"No. Thank you, Shai." She gives him her signature smile.

_Please let me know if you need something_. He nods and returns to his reading. 

Shai heads to the bathroom to wash the day from her face and brush her teeth. She undoes her French braid and brushes out her hair as she walks into her room to change into her pyjamas. Climbing onto her bed, she fluffs the pillows up behind her and she settles in with her book. She reads through two chapters before her concentration begins to wander from the page. Thoughts of preparing tomorrow's dinner of beef stew are normal; what size to slice the beef and vegetables, how long to let it simmer, and when to add the seasonings. Thinking about what laundry needs to be sent to the dry cleaner and what can be washed and dried here is necessary; is there a dry cleaner in the building, does he prefer his shirts folded or on a hanger, does he like scented or non-scented detergent? 

But wondering about what the general is reading? Well, that is simple curiosity. Wondering whether he prefers traditional bound books to mass produced? OK, that is a little odd. Wondering if he finds the fire as hypnotic and relaxing as she does? That is distracting, to say the least. Wondering what it would be like to enjoy the fire sharing the same couch? That is unprofessional, and tugging at her thoughts the most.

Sephiroth is reading one of several books in a series on the three traditional divisions of philosophical inquiry: natural, moral, and metaphysical and their modern variations. He has finished the first volumes on the natural sciences and is now trying to broaden his knowledge of ethics: right and wrong, good and evil, vice and virtue. Throughout his career, Shinra has forced him to walk a fine ethical line. But Sephiroth prides himself on his integrity and the high expectations he elicits from the cadets, SOLDIERs, and officers under his command. It is what has made him so formidable. That, and his deadly aim. 

He is no stranger to temptation, though. He is simply selective on which ones he chooses to succumb to. No grand falls that lead to universal upheaval. Subtle, harmless enticements that bring him pleasure, like occasionally giving in to Moreau's persistent invitations to dinner or giving a signature to a starry eyed cadet. Or asking a young woman he barely knows to join him in the living room because he is disquieted by her absence? No. That would be inappropriate. Certain civilities must be followed. A harmonious understanding must be preserved. And if you believe that, your reasoning is as silver as your hair.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

If Shai thinks her bathroom is spectacular, then the general's must be downright regal. The centerpiece is a rectangular slab of polished marble, the colour of cream, approximately twenty centimeters thick. Recessed in the center of the marble is an oval whirlpool bathtub made of a white synthetic material that resembles stone with the faucet and controls discreetly hidden under the rim. The design concept reminds Shai of an ancient thermal bath. But as marvelous as that is, there is the shower; a large, rectangular glass enclosure with an ergonomic teak chair to sit on, a rain shower like the one in Shai's bath, several hydromassage jets, and something called a steam generator. Off to the side, are two vessel sinks made of the same material as the tub, paired with two oval mirrors in black lacquered frames. A toilet and bidet are installed to their right. Folded plush towels are stacked on walnut wood shelving near the sinks. What she thought was going to take her the morning to do, now looks like it will be an all day affair.

Never let it be said that Shai Montgomery isn't prepared for eventualities when it comes to carefully laid plans. The bathroom takes her longer than she had planned and cuts into the preparation and cooking time for the stew. No worries. She shuffles her menu around: grilled balsamic chicken salad with spiced pecans. She throws some chicken breasts on the stovetop grill while lightly toasting some pecans in a mixture of sugar, butter, and hot sauce. She whisks together balsamic vinegar, garlic, and dijon mustard for the salad dressing. Once the chicken is golden and sliced, and the pecans have been coarsely chopped, she fills two plates with arugula, and tops it with the chicken, pecans, and fresh raspberries. She drizzles the dressing over the salad, giving a large serving to the general and a smaller one to herself. She is concerned a light salad will not be enough to sustain him, but given that his plate does not bear a crumb, berry, or leaf when he finishes, Shai is going to assume he is sated.

The rest of the evening falls into the shadows of the previous ones. Shai cleans the dishes and kitchen while the general retires to the couch to read and relax in front of the fire. When her work is done, she asks him if he needs anything, to which his answer is a polite no. She retreats to her bedroom and readies herself for sleep. She sinks into her pillows and tries to lose herself in her book. It is a psychological thriller. It should sink its claws into her and not let go, but Shai finds herself out of its reach. She feels something she has not felt since she first moved to Midgar. An absence of life. She looks around her room, searching for it in the darkened corners and the hidden nooks. But it is not there, only a beast Shai convinced herself she had vanquished long ago, and is confused why it has reared its monstrous head again: loneliness.

Sephiroth begins his evening lounging in the living room. He remembers insisting on having a couch long enough to accommodate a man of his height, and the designer had come through with favourable results. It is comfortable, durable, and visually pleasing, but tonight it might as well be constructed of pins and nails. He is constantly shifting his weight, readjusting his legs, and stretching his back. He has reread the same chapter on normative ethics with every repositioning of his body and each time his interest wanes from the subject matter a little more. The fire's calming nature seems to only add to his annoyance because he is far from feeling its effects. The worse part? Deep down he knows the root of this irritation and it has nothing to do with his furniture or the fire and everything to do with him and his inability to admit certain truths to himself. Ironic, then, that though he is studying philosophy, he's yet to clue in on its metaphysical teachings.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai's first break in routine comes on Thursday; the general's dinner engagement. No fancy recipe tonight. She's treating herself to takeaway. It's all she thinks about while cleaning her bathroom; eating deep dish pizza layered in pepperoni and cheesy goodness. Late afternoon arrives, and Shai is just stowing away the cleaning supplies in the storage closet, when the general storms through the door. He slams it behind him, briskly walks to his bedroom, and slams that door too, the percussive shock resounding throughout the condo. She stands frozen in place. She has never seen him express an emotion, any emotion, so strongly before, and her sight of it had been fleeting. Not that she wished to see him angry up close. The glimpse she had was plenty. She can't imagine who would be stupid enough to make that man mad. In time, Shai will come to learn there is only one person who can send Sephiroth into a rage and live to tell the tale.

Not knowing what to do with herself, Shai decides to sit at the island bar with her stack of cookbooks and plan next week's menu. Normally a task she reserves for Sundays, it seems a wiser, more sensible, option than her first instinct which was to hide under her bed until the general left. Who knows what mood he will be in when that bedroom door opens? Maybe if she hunches over, blends in with the surroundings, he will take no notice of her and walk by without incident. 

She considers changing into a beige colour to camouflage with the neutral tone of the counter-top, when she hears the bedroom door open. Do I make eye contact with him? Don't apex predators see that as a challenge? Shai throws caution to the wind and turns in his direction. What she sees makes her freeze all over again, but for very, _very_ different reasons. He is wearing a black merino wool turtleneck with black slim fit chinos and black leather whole cut shoes. Over the turtleneck, in contrast to the black, is a light grey double-breasted houndstooth blazer. Any other man tailored in this ensemble would be lauded with common compliments of handsome, dashing, or sophisticated. But covering his tall frame, draped from his broad shoulders, and crowned in silver? Words are failing Shai at the moment, and in her world that means her hands are motionless.

"Shai!" 

_Hmm?_

"If you have finished gawking, I am leaving now. I will be home late." 

_OK_. He strides past her and out the door, closing it with a quiet click rather than a sonic boom. Shai wants to disappear into the woodwork. How long had he been trying to get her attention before he was forced to shout her name? And, dear gods, what had her expression been like? Wide eyed, mouth agape, and drooling? She is mortified. She will apologize to him the moment she sees him tomorrow. He must know that this type of behaviour will no longer be an issue. Shai closes the cookbooks and notebook, grabs her phone, and dials for her dinner.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

It is almost one thirty when Sephiroth comes home, his jacket off and slung over his shoulder. His breath smells of wine and spirits though he is not intoxicated. His body is incapable of it, his unique metabolism burning the alcohol out of his system. The unfortunate downside is the process makes him ravenous, which is why he seldom drinks. Tonight, though, given the dinner company and the conversation, he thought he would try to drown his sorrows in expensive wine and whiskey.

He's about to enter his bedroom, but stops. As has become his habit since her first week here, he looks down the hallway. A sliver of light peeks through her partially closed door. He releases a heavy, chest-dropping sigh, tosses his coat onto his bed, and walks to her room. The bed is a cluttered mess. Sketches of flowers from different angles, distances, and light exposures lie all around Shai's sleeping form. A sketchbook lies fallen over the side of the bed, a pencil still in her hand. She's in a seated position, leaning back against the upholstered headboard, propped up with her pillows. Her head has tilted slightly to the right and her mouth is parted enough to let out a soft purr. 

His gaze falls on her: the pink shade blushing her cheeks; her long lashes, dark brown like the colour of her hair; the mass of thick curls falling length upon length over her shoulders and down her chest. She barely stirs when he eases the pencil from her grip or when he gathers the sketches and places them on her dresser with the sketchbook. He covers her legs with the duvet, and turns out the light. As he walks back to his room, he can feel the unpleasantness of the evening seeping from him like poison drawn from a wound, replaced by the warmth of a memory from the afternoon of wide ice blue eyes shining like glaciers in freezing seas.


	8. T.G.I.F.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for this chapter taking so long. I try to get them out in a week's time, but Real Life has been particularly harsh these past few weeks. Had a Covid-19 scare with my mom (who is 82), but it turned out to be double pneumonia (in both lungs). Still, until we got her test results back, I couldn't think of anything else. In truth, I couldn't really relax until she was discharged from the hospital. 
> 
> My muse has slowly returned. All the lovely comments, reviews, and kudos have a lot to do with that. Thank you all! You are the best!
> 
> Also, I have been told that my chapters involving food tend to make the reader a bit peckish, so here is a list of the recipes I used.
> 
> Chapter 3 \- [Cheese Ravioli with Three Pepper Topping](https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/22631/cheese-ravioli-with-three-pepper-topping/)  
> Chapter 4 \- [Savory Garlic Marinated Steaks](https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/17325/savory-garlic-marinated-steaks/?internalSource=streams&referringId=2829&referringContentType=Recipe%20Hub&clickId=st_trending_s%22rel=%22nofollow%22) & [Gourmet Chicken Sandwich](https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/24795/gourmet-chicken-sandwich/?internalSource=recipe%20hub&referringId=2264&referringContentType=Recipe%20Hub&clickId=cardslot%2041)  
> Chapter 6 \- [Chicken Cordon Bleu 1](https://www.allrecipes.com/recipe/8495/chicken-cordon-bleu-i/), [Famous Butter Rice](https://laurenslatest.com/laurens-famous-butter-rice/), [Baby Lettuce Salad with Raspberries, Cranberries, and Feta](https://flavorthemoments.com/baby-lettuce-salad-with-raspberries-cranberries-and-feta/)  
> Chapter 7 \- [Pan-Seared Halibut with Kentucky Bourbon](https://champagne-tastes.com/bourbon-pan-seared-halibut/), [Glazed Carrots](https://janeskitchenmiracles.com/what-to-serve-with-halibut/), [Stovetop Beef Stew for Two](https://www.chocolatemoosey.com/2018/10/16/stovetop-beef-stew-for-two/), & [Grilled Balsamic Chicken Salad with Spiced Pecans](https://www.myrecipes.com/recipe/grilled-balsamic-chicken-salad-spiced-pecans)  
> Chapter 8 \- [Steakhouse Pasta](https://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/ree-drummond/steakhouse-pasta-6614056)
> 
> Please let me know if any of these links do not work. Otherwise, enjoy!

Unbeknownst to Shai, her Friday is going to veer off schedule, off course, right off the road, and down a steep embankment. Whether she stops safely before tumbling off the edge of the precipice remains to be seen. Her morning begins strangely. She wakes to find herself tucked deep into her down pillows, snuggling her duvet like a security blanket. That, in itself, is not abnormal. Shai's a cuddler. The lamp is turned off. Again, odd, but nothing new. However, the sketches she left strewn over the bed last night are now stacked on the dresser along with her drawing pad and pencil. How they ended up there is no great mystery. Did she really believe her lamp was turning itself off every night? Or her novel magically closing and levitating to rest on her bedside chest? No, she knew all along. She should be furious or, at the very least, concerned with him entering her room without permission, especially while her body and mind are in a state of unconsciousness. But she's not, and that is the strangest element of all to come to light this morning.

After breakfast, she spends the morning dusting and vacuuming the living area. Seems fitting. She started the week this way, she should end the week this way. She times her work to finish around lunch, storing the vacuum away as the oven clock changes from eleven thirty four to thirty five. She unwraps her leftover pizza, arranges it on a plate, and reheats it in the microwave. While waiting, she pulls out the cookbooks and the partially completed menu. Perhaps she is being premature in her critique, but Shai deems this past week a culinary success. The general enjoyed his meals without complaint, even bestowed on her praise after their first meal together. 

She sits at the island bar with her deep dish pizza, a fork in one hand and a pencil in the other. A little wiser than the week before, she finishes the menu in no time. The grocery list is completed shortly after. She has moved on to reviewing her daunting pasta recipe for this evening's meal when the front door opens. She jerks from the unexpectedness and sends her fork sailing over the island to land clanging on the floor. She turns to see the general closing the door behind him. No kendo uniform today; a steel-grey long-sleeved t-shirt, black joggers, and light running shoes. His hair is bound behind his back, his fringe draped over his chest. His torso heaves from exertion.

Shai makes a concerted effort not to inspect him too long this time, his departing words from the night before forefront in her mind. Instead, she slips off the stool, picks up her fork, deposits it in the dishwasher, and takes a clean one from the drawer. She sidesteps to the refrigerator and grabs a bottle of water. She turns on her heel to take it to him and seize this opportunity to apologize for her brazen behaviour last night and almost smacks right into him. It does not seem to matter what shoes don his feet, he moves with the stealth of a jungle cat. With their eyes locked on one another's, Shai lifts the bottle in front of him like a tribal offering, and he slowly pulls it from her hands.

"Thank you."

 _You are welcome_. He uncaps the bottle, takes a healthy swig and wipes his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He looks down to see Shai patiently waiting. 

_General?_

"Yes?"

 _I am so sorry for my improper display last evening. I will not behave in that way again_. He cocks an eyebrow and a smile dusts his lips.

"In what way, Shai?" Dear gods! Is he toying with her?

 _In that way. You know_. Shai widens her eyes and drops her mouth open in an over-the-top exaggeration of a woman's features at the sight of an extraordinary example of masculinity.

"Mmm. Think nothing of it. I'm familiar with that expression. Although, I don't recall yours looking quite so comical." Shai either wants to disappear into the aether or stomp on his foot hard enough to bruise his toes. She will have to make do with flaming red cheeks and a worried lower lip. He finishes off the bottle, hands it to her, and chuckles to himself as he walks by to go to his room. She hears the door latch click into place. She releases her frustration on the bottle, the plastic snapping and crackling loudly as she collapses it in on itself before throwing it into the recycling bin. She sits back down at the island and finishes her lunch.

Shai assumes that the general is going to shower, change clothes, and go to work. She is correct about the shower, though it is lengthier than usual. She is correct about him changing his clothes, though instead of office dress, he comes out of his room in jeans and a black v-neck pullover sweater, his hair dry and pouring like liquid silver down his back and chest. Her winning streak comes to a surprising end when the general takes the large, square decorative pillows from the secondary couch that faces the windows, and props them on one end of the couch in front of the fireplace. He leans back against them and stretches his legs out across the cushions, his book in hand. Is he taking the day off? Shai hops off the stool and approaches him.

_Anything I can get you, general?_

"Not at the moment. Perhaps, later."

 _OK_. She walks back to the island. She folds the menu into thirds and places it in the cookbook to mark the page for tonight's recipe. She grabs the grocery list and walks to her room. She had intended to use her time after lunch to go to the store, drop off the list, and make arrangements for next week's delivery. It is part of her job, after all, so she sees no reason it should be an issue just because he is home. She slips on her ankle boots, her cardigan, wraps a knitted scarf around her neck, and pulls the elastic from her hair, letting it fall in its typical unruly mass all around her shoulders and back. She slips the list into her satchel and walks out into the living area.

"Where are you going?" She stops, her heart skipping a beat or two. Shai pulls the list from her bag, walks over, and hands it to him. 

_I am going to the store to drop off the grocery list for next week's menu_. He hands the list back to her. His eyes follow her fingers as she folds and slides the paper back into her satchel. His eyes shine when he sees her biting her lower lip as she rummages through its contents before slinging it over her head and shoulder and adjusting it to hang against her right hip. His eyes focus on the few rogue curls at her temples brushing her cheeks as she fills a small water bottle at the dispenser in the refrigerator door. His eyes appreciate the curly waves of dark brown that sway and bounce against her back as she moves about her business. He snaps his book close. Shai jumps to attention.

"I'm coming with you." Shai's eyes widen in shock. He stands and stretches, his sweater rising a fraction above his waistline, giving her a peek of skin and taut muscle. On his way to his room, he misinterprets her reaction.

"You forgot to drop your mouth open."

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

He comes out several minutes later and, this time, Shai's lips do part. She is accustomed to seeing the major length of his hair in a ponytail, but now? His fringe is swept back from his face and secured in with the longer strands. So many thoughts and questions rush at her. Has anyone else had the privilege of seeing him this way? Why is he wearing it brushed back now? My gods, he is so incredibly stunning: the gentle slope of silver above his eyes, lashes as black as coal splayed in a broad fan, a slight widow's peak on his brow, the dip of his cupid's bow, that full bottom lip, the flawlessness of his skin- Oh no! What are you doing?! You're gawking! Again! Shai quickly looks elsewhere, but seconds too late. That cocky brow is raised and his eyes are bright. She fidgets with her scarf and pretends not to notice. He hides his hair under a three quarter length black leather coat and tops his head with a wool bucket hat. His finishing touch is a pair of opaque sunglasses to hide his eyes.

"Let's go." He makes his way out the door, Shai following like a trained canine on the heels of their master. There is no one in the elevator when it dings open on their floor, but that does not last long. Soon, men and women file into the car, but instead of whispers and sidelong glances, they face forward, toy soldiers arranged in rows. His disguise may work on the public, on ordinary citizens, but on the employees of Shinra, General Sephiroth will always be recognized. Shai must admit she is enjoying a certain amount of satisfaction standing next to him, but also knows that speculation regarding their acquaintance will only increase, the gossip will grow louder, the stares will last longer.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai leads him to a unique structure several blocks away from the Shinra building. The façade is comprised of distinct architectural styles giving the illusion of a village main street lined with boutique shops, but when you walk through any of the shop doors, you enter one dwelling. They have barely passed through one of the entrances, past the displays of fresh fruit and vegetables and buckets of seasonal bouquets, when a portly woman Sephiroth would place in her fifties half-walks, half-jogs over to Shai and throws her arms around her. Shai reciprocates, steps back, smiles, and signs hello. The older woman is soon joined by a man, as slender and angular in his shape as she is short and rotund in hers. Together, they look like a caricature of a typical shopkeeper and his wife. Shai has passed the grocery list to her and she is reading it loudly to her husband when Sephiroth moves from his place near the entry to stand by Shai's side, his height casting a shadow over the paper. The wife goes quiet, and the couple turn to get a proper look at this stranger.

"Shai!" the wife suddenly exclaims, "Who is this strapping young man? Your boyfriend, perhaps?" Sephiroth looks down at Shai who seems to have been stunned into inaction, an understudy thrust into the spotlight, unprepared for the pressure of performing. 

"We are friends spending the day together," he says, piping up before too much time has passed to make any answer sound plausible.

"How lovely!" yells the wife, "But what a shame you are not a couple. You make such a striking pair!"

"Thank you. You are most kind. Isn't she, Shai?" Sephiroth presses his hand into the small of her back, discreetly easing her out of her stupor. Shai blinks a few times then beams at the proprietor and his wife and nods emphatically. The wife clasps her hands at her bosom and returns Shai's smile.

"Such a beautiful young lady!" she shouts, "Isn't she beautiful?" Shai's face turns as red as the vine-ripened tomatoes arranged with the organic veggies.

"Yes, she is." Sephiroth's smile and smooth baritone charm the sweet lady and her good husband. Through the woven threads of Shai's sweater and the fine fabric of her shirt, his fingertips feel a hitch in her breath, a sudden rush of heat from her skin, and the deep beating of her heart. He drops his hand to his side. 

"Have we finished here, Shai? The day awaits." She takes a deep breath and finishes her business, indicating a day and time printed on the list to the wife and her husband. 

"Of course!" the husband shouts, "Go and enjoy the rest of your day!" The wife and Shai hug each other goodbye. Sephiroth shakes the proprietor's hand. Once outside and on their way back home, Sephiroth is free to ask the question he's been wanting to ask since the wife jovially greeted Shai.

"Why were they shouting at you?"

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

By the time they get home, it is time for Shai to start prepping for dinner. The general goes into his bedroom and removes his disguise. He comes out shortly after, lights the fire, takes up his place on the couch, and resumes his reading. By then, Shai is bustling about the kitchen, referencing the recipe as she pulls ingredients from the fridge and pantry. She brushes the grill with vegetable oil while it preheats and sets a pot of salted water on the stove to boil. Her eyes dart back and forth from the cookbook to her hands as she measures seasonings out in teaspoons and tablespoons. She sprinkles kosher salt, pepper, and lemon pepper on the steak and heats olive oil in a large skillet.

So immersed in her work, stirring in the brandy with the garlic, but not before removing it from the heat source so it doesn't splatter, that she fails to notice she is being observed in between pages on the philosophy of art and beauty. She is so busy stirring the pappardelle in the pot, adding the diced tomatoes for the sauce into the skillet, and grilling the steak, that she does not see him place the book down on the coffee table and rise from the couch. She is scarcely aware of him coming into the kitchen, while she is stirring the fontina and bleu cheese into the tomatoes, and unlocking a cabinet to the left of the fridge to reveal a wine refrigerator. She almost cuts into her finger while slicing the steak when he pops the cork from a bottle of pinot noir. While she drains the pasta, he takes two wine glasses and the bottle and places them at their table settings. 

With the sauce and pasta mixed together, and a plentiful portion on one plate and a modest one on another, she places the strips of steak on the pasta and garnishes it with basil and crumbled bleu cheese. The general is seated at the table pouring the wine, filling the bowl of the glass to a generous half. She sets their meals at their places and seats herself. With their napkins draped across their laps, Sephiroth raises his glass and patiently waits for Shai, who takes a moment or two to realize that he expects her to do the same. No salutations of any kind expressed, just two wine glasses ringing clear and true. 

"What are we eating tonight?" he asks, swirling the wine's aroma to rise to the rim before taking a slow taste.

 _Steakhouse pasta_. She takes her time spelling out the name. He gives a gradual nod of his head and begins his meal. Shai joins him. She spends much of her dinner deciding how many bites of food are acceptable between sips of wine, not wanting to give the impression she is either reluctant or greedy. She is relieved when she empties her glass only to have the general refill it to half. Shai can already feel the heated flush in her cheeks from the alcohol and that is from a single serving. She is such a lightweight. She glances at her dinner partner. He has consumed twice as much as she and yet appears the same as he did at the start of their meal. She has noticed he is eating twice as fast as he normally does and even asked if there is more. Luckily, the recipe was for six servings and Shai is able to fill his plate a second time.

The last of the bottle is poured into her glass, the final drops forming concentric circles across the surface of the deep red liquid. Shai's third glass of wine. Not only is her face as hot as a noon day sun, but her mind is buzzing pleasantly. Had she been sitting with Dr. Moreau, she would be relaxed, laughing, and signing in grand, exaggerated movements, but with the general? She's doing everything in her power not to have a fit of the giggles, never thinking she would find herself in this situation with her client; a dinner with wine by firelight. The more she tries to restrain herself, the more ridiculous she finds her circumstances. For the first time in her life, she is thankful she has no voice. 

The dinner concludes with the general picking away at Shai's leftover pappardelle while she finishes her wine. Cleaning up the kitchen and dining area takes her more time than usual, no longer worried over spasmodic gasps and titters and more concerned about dropping plates and pots and creating a ruckus while the general is trying to read. Not only is Shai a lightweight when it comes to drinking, but she can become uncoordinated as well. An hour goes by before she finishes by pressing the on button for the dishwasher. She walks to the end of the couch and waits for him to look up from his reading. He continues on, already knowing what she is going to ask.

"I'm fine, Shai. Thank you." His eyes rise to meet hers, their natural intensity causing the flush on her cheeks to spread to the shell-like curves of her ears. 

_You know where to find me should you need anything_. She leaves. He waits several minutes then silently closes his book. All the while she was busying herself in the kitchen, he pretended to read. He saw words, syntax, and paragraphs, but paid no attention to them. He watched her out of the corner of his eye, listened to her with his enhanced hearing. He remembers, now, how the wine reddened her lips, and soon after darkened her cheeks. He remembers how she had to repeatedly stab at the large noodles before her fork would find purchase in the pasta, how she closed her eyes with the first bite of steak. 

He wanted to tell her how he enjoyed spending the afternoon with her, how it helped to calm him in a way that even a vigorous workout was unable to do. He wanted to have a real conversation with her during dinner, but when the time came? He reverted to his rooted sobriety. Monday is approaching faster than he would like. His treatment, as well as the conversation during Thursday night's dinner, is preying on his mind. He needed to get away today. Away from all things related to Shinra, SOLDIER, and floor 68. He had thought he needed to be alone. Sephiroth sits upright on the couch, facing the fire, watching the curves and twists of the flames. How wrong he had been.


	9. Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who left comments, reviews, kudos, story alerts, story favourites, and bookmarks! You are all so sweet! RL is returning to normal. Well, as normal as it can be in this time of Covid-19. 
> 
> Something to be mentioned; like France, I know there is no Britain in the Final Fantasy universe, but I need a particular playwright to be in my story. You'll know when you get there. Just keep in mind, that I am writing in an alternate universe and I am taking some creative liberties, such as food trucks and regional dishes.
> 
> I hope you all continue to enjoy!

Shai is passed out before ten, a glass of water and a bottle of pain relief tablets sitting on her bedside chest next to her unopened novel. She is sleeping so soundly that her snoring has escalated from the occasional kitten purr to ear-popping piggy snorts. Sephiroth switches off her lamp, closes her door, and turns in for the night. By eleven thirty, he has turned off his lights and crawled into bed. One twelve am. He turns from his back onto his right side. Two ten am. He flips to his left side. Three twenty four am. He kicks the top sheet and duvet off as he turns onto his stomach. Three forty am. The air chills his bare skin and he reaches for the bedclothes to cover himself. Four thirty am. He's sitting up in bed, his head in his hands, debating whether to rise at this early hour, continue this infuriating night of tossing about, or take a tranquilizer from the bottle in his top dresser drawer. He has never had to result to artificial means to sleep before. He's unsure whether they will have any affect on him, but Moreau insisted it couldn't hurt to have them at hand should he need them one day. Tonight the temptation is strong, but he decides to get up and resort to other methods to rid his mind and body of their restlessness.

Shai sleeps in to ten am, a late time of the morning for an early riser like herself. She is thankful she had the sense to take the acetaminophen before going to bed. A lightweight like her cannot take the risk of waking up with the tiniest hint of a hangover. How would that appear to the general? She traipses into the kitchen and immediately grabs a banana from the fruit bowl, yoinks one of the general's two liter bottles of water, and sits down at the island bar. She polishes off the banana in no time, chugs half the water, and moves onto an orange. For someone not hungover, she sure is eating like she is. She's wondering if the cafeteria on ten is open on the weekends when the front door swings wide and the general walks in, closing the door with more force than needed. He's wearing a similar outfit to yesterday's and his hair is completely tied back. He is sweating profusely, the silver on his head matted to his scalp, his shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He stomps to the island, grabs Shai's water and empties the bottle in one long drink, then plucks an orange wedge from her hand and bites it in half. It does not take detective level skills to deduce that something is bothering him.

_May I make you some breakfast, general?_

"No," he says, as he takes another slice of orange, "I'm not hungry." OK, she thinks. I'll just leave him be. She gets up from the stool, deliberately leaving her remaining wedges unguarded and makes herself some oatmeal with blueberries. She hears the fridge door open and seal close, feels him brush against the loose folds of her PJs on his way to his bedroom, and after, the door banging shut. She returns to her seat with her heated oats and berries to see nothing but an empty plastic bottle and orange rinds.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai has showered, dried her hair, and is pulling on a pair of faded boyfriend jeans. It's a beautiful late summer day, crisp and clear. She wants to get outside. She thought she would take a leisurely walk to her apartment and select a few more books to bring back to the condo. Maybe even stop in to her favourite art supply store and have a look at their studio easels. She slips into an oversized cable knit sweater the colour of ivory pearl. She slides in to her ankle boots, positions her satchel on her hip, grabs her empty rucksack, and turns off the torchiere.

When she walks out into the living area, the general is seated on the fireplace couch, his unopened book pressed between his hands. He, too, has showered and changed clothes; a slate blue turtleneck sweater with black jeans, his hair luminous against the dark shades. He is lost in his thoughts, seemingly staring at his reflection in the fireplace glass, but in truth he could be eons away past brick, mortar, and concrete. Shai feels compelled to tiptoe past him and out the door. She takes her first cautious step.

"And where are you off to?" His attention is directed at Shai, but his eyes are still focused on sights she cannot see. How is she to tell him if he will not look at her? She walks tentatively towards the front of the coffee table, inching ever closer to breaking his line of vision. When his reflection is replaced by Shai's fingers interlaced against a backdrop of yarn and denim, his eyes snap upwards. She is not met with anger or annoyance or, indeed, any disapproval, but with a brilliant green as dazzling as the auroras swayed by solar winds in northern skies. They take Shai's breath away until the brilliance dies away and she is left with a calm emerald glow. She regains her composure and answers his question.

_My old apartment. To gather a few books to bring here. For when I read. At night_. OK, so she is not as composed as she thinks she is. 

"Books?" 

_Yes_. 

"You will need assistance. I will come along." He stands, throws the book onto the coffee table, and heads to his room. Shai is about to protest, but thinks better of it. She doesn't really need the help, but if she is being honest with herself, she did enjoy his company yesterday, even though they did not speak a great deal and he spent most of his energy looking at the shops, homes, and street vendors of Midgar as if he has never breached the doors of the Shinra building. A sadness sweeps through her at the thought that maybe his contact with the city has been limited to views from windows. All the more reason for him to come with you, she thinks. He emerges from his bedroom wearing the same concealing outfit as yesterday. 

"Shall we go?"

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai's landlady is sweeping the stairs leading into the brownstone when Shai and Sephiroth arrive. Upon seeing her youngest tenant, she drops the broom, rushes to her, and the two women unite in a friendly embrace. If Sephiroth has noticed anything these past two days, is Shai is regarded fondly by all those who know her, whether their familiarity be years, weeks, or, like Sybelline, days. Only Sybelline? Words uttered in silky tones within the confines of his mind cause his jaw to clench and his eyes to brighten behind the mirrored lenses of his glasses. They form questions and make observations that he is not ready to consider, let alone acknowledge.

The ladies conclude their greeting and Shai motions to Sephiroth to follow her up the stairs into the building. The landlady smiles at him as he passes by. He remembers the skepticism he felt the first time Shai showed him such a genuine expression of cheer and receptiveness. That unwillingness to accept is as natural to him as breathing. Why does he believe he is so undeserving? You know why, that smooth voice reminds him. Fuck off, he tells it, as he follows Shai up the four flights of stairs to her apartment. 

If someone had told her that she would be bringing General Sephiroth back to her apartment a month ago, Shai would have told them they were insane. Yet here he stands, patiently waiting behind her as she struggles with the deadbolt's sticky locking mechanism. She wiggles the key a few more times until it finally turns, then slides a second key into the doorknob's keyhole. The tumblers turn, the latch clicks, and the door swings open. Shai ushers the general into her place, closing the door behind them. Only then does Sephiroth remove his glasses, his eyes methodically taking in his surroundings which, given the size of Shai's studio, takes little time. 

"How long have you been here?" he asks. 

_Six years_. He begins to scan over the titles on the first bookshelf. 

"You have amassed quite a library in just six years." He looks at Shai, seated on the daybed, unbuckling the rucksack. 

_Only a fraction of them are mine. The rest belong to my mother and father_. 

"Hmm." He moves on to the second bookshelf.

"I am assuming the art books are yours?" Shai nods in reply.

"You have a wide variety of classical literature here, as well as plays, poetry, classic romance, and fiction. How many of these have you read?" 

_All of them_. His right brow raises and his eyes narrow.

"All of them?" Shai stares him down defiantly.

_Yes. All of them. My mother was an English teacher. She insisted I be well-read_. Sephiroth bends his knees to crouch down to glance over the lower shelves. 

"Astronomy, philosophy, musical theory, musical composition. Have you read all of these too?" He stands, a book on astronomy in his hands. He flips through the pages, pausing at several high resolution telescopic images of nebulas, stars, and galaxies, before looking at Shai.

_No. Those belong to my father_.

"And what was his occupation?" 

_He was a musician. A violinist_. 

"Professionally?"

_Yes_. He notices a subtle change in her. A sadness is creeping towards her from the memories on these shelves, hidden in the frayed corners, well-worn spines, and torn dust jackets. Without a doubt, his questions, though innocent, are upsetting her. He had not meant for his curiosity to assume the form of an inquiry. He kneels to return the book back to where he found it, but feels a gentle pressure on his shoulder. He looks up at Shai, a faint smile on her lips.

_You may have that, if you wish. My father would be sad to know that it was gathering dust on a shelf and not being enjoyed by someone else_. He is about to decline her offer, if not for her smile and the fragility behind it that holds the precious memories of her father. He would be a cad to say no.

"Thank you." He stands, handing the book to Shai as delicately as he would pass on a brittle autumn leaf. A gift. From someone other than Moreau. From someone who demands nothing from you other than friendship; Sybelline's very words in his office on the day she informed him of the change in his living arrangements. He watches Shai put it into her rucksack then walk to select shelves and choose specific books that currently hold her interest: a mystery, a horror novel, an art book on figure drawing, and, despite her trying to conceal the title from him, a book of erotic short stories. She packs all four in the rucksack, then turns to him.

_Please feel free to borrow anything you would like. I insist_. Sephiroth will never tell her, but he is pleased that she has given him permission. He knows the very book he wants to take with him. He returns to the first bookshelf, where her mother's plays and poetry books are alphabetized according to poet or playwright. His fingers walk over the uneven spines until he finds the title, printed in flourishing gold script, pulls it from the shelf, and hands it to Shai. Her eyebrows rise as she reads the title: Shakespeare's Sonnets. She puts it in the rucksack with the rest and buckles the flap. She is about to hoist it onto her back when a firm grip relieves her of her burden. Sephiroth slides it effortlessly onto his shoulder before they make their way out of the apartment. Shai is grateful for his assistance, and will be sure to tell him.

They forgo going to the art store on their way back to Shinra. Instead, Shai introduces the general to a food truck parked outside of it. She places two orders for sliced grilled chicken covered in diced tomato and red onion, drizzled with a creamy mixture of yogurt, cucumber, garlic, and mint, with chips laid on top, wrapped in warm pita bread, and placed in a tin foil wrapper for easy consumption. They stroll home, finishing their lunch in the shadow of the Shinra building. As they walk through the doors, Shai decides the whole experience was worth it, from the moment he took the wrap from the vendor to trying to figure out how to take a bite without spilling the fillings to constantly dabbing with the napkin at the corners of his mouth to wipe away any excess sauce. She is positive that that was his first foray into finger food. She will never laugh outright at him experiencing something new, but inside she was smiling wide at how he retained this air of power and strength while still looking the adorable fool.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai wakes Sunday morning with a full body stretch and a smile. She feels good. This past week has been her first week here where she has truly been able to demonstrate her skills as a live-in domestic. The entire condominium is so immaculate, it could be featured in an architectural publication. She compiled a comprehensive menu and managed the grocery delivery. And she took ordinary individual ingredients and grilled, sautéed, and boiled them into savory dinners. But best of all? Surprise outings with the general on Friday and Saturday. Granted, they only went to the market and her apartment and as far as conversation went, he seemed to learn more about her than she him, but she is getting to know her enigmatic client, slowly, but surely. She hops out of bed, wondering what today will bring.

Shai knows something is wrong by breakfast. She is finishing up her spinach and cheese omelet at the island bar when the general charges into the condo and straight to his bedroom where he slams the door hard enough to rattle the pot rack and the crockery in the cabinets. Shai sits, unmoving, on the barstool, her fork suspended in mid-air. She blinks back into action and finishes taking her last bite of egg, then cleans up her plate, utensils, and cookware. Closing the dishwasher door, she instinctively wonders if she should ask the general if he would like breakfast, then thinks better of it. She still remembers the feel of thin wisps of curls breezing in his wake as he rushed by, the flash of silver out of the corner of her eye. She goes to her room to work on her drawing of the bouquet she purchased her first week here. 

Lunch time approaches and Shai has not heard a sound from the living area. She climbs off of her bed, peeks out her door, and down the hallway. His door remains closed. What should she do? Her stomach is quick to answer with a long, low growl. She is hungry. She grabs her horror novel, tucks it under her arm and, rising high on the balls of her feet, cautiously walks down the hallway, past his bedroom, and into the kitchen. As she padded past his door she heard nothing, just a disquieting lack of sound or movement. In the kitchen, she works as silently as she can, piecing together her favourite sandwich and spearing a few garlic dills onto her plate. She sits in her usual place and eats her lunch, wincing at every crunch of pickle. Her attention keeps returning to the solid wooden door to her right. Worrying about his daily nutritional needs has been overridden by her apprehension over what it would take to make a man as imposing as General Sephiroth sequester himself in his room.

Shai doesn't know who in the heavens gives her the notion to knock on his door or what in the universe gives her the courage to act on it, but later on, as she sheds tears in her bedroom and looks back on her actions, she would have silenced their advice, their blandishments by covering her ears and running away. She has only herself to blame for the emotional roller coaster she finds herself on now. It can not have played out any other way. All the signs are there, and yet she disregards their warnings.She walks right up to that door and raps her knuckles twice against the wood, a hero bravely entering the dragon's lair. No movement. She knocks two more times, lunging at that sleeping beast with the tip of her sword. Still nothing. She is about to try again, her sword rising overhead, when the dragon awakens and unleashes its fury.

"Leave me be!" he thunders.

And so she does, back to her bedroom, defeated. Then she texts Dr. Moreau.


	10. Dr. Moreau, Counsellor and Friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the long break between chapter 9 and 10. I have been suffering from sleep deprivation due to Restless Leg Syndrome (RLS). If you have never had it before, I can tell you with confidence that it is hell. Hopefully, medication will help get rid it.
> 
> Had a fair share of anxiety over this chapter. I hope everyone enjoys it. :)

Shai's instructions are clear; do not ring the doorbell, the right door will be unlocked, enter as quietly as possible, and come straight to her room. Now all Dr. Moreau has to do is choose an approach that will make the least commotion to avoid alerting a man with supernatural hearing to her arrival. She chooses the single chime of the elevator over the repeating tap of her heels echoing up several flights of stairs. Besides, if memory serves her, the door to the stairwell on the 63rd floor is blocked by an artificial yucca plant. Shai's text is worrisome. Apparently, Sephiroth is behaving strangely when compared to his behaviour from the past six days, such as refusing to eat, mastering the silent treatment, confining himself to his room, culminating in stern words yelled at a caring heart. The worst part of it all? Moreau's promise to him keeps her from telling Shai why.

The door to Shai's bedroom is open. The young woman is seated on her bed, legs crossed, head bowed, a crumpled tissue disappearing behind layers of curls to dab at puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks. Moreau crawls up on the bed and sits next to her, resting the box of tissues she displaced on her lap. Without looking up, Shai hands her the tiny sketchbook. It is opened to pages filled with uneven sentences and damp blotches from fallen tears. Shai throws her used tissue onto the floor among wadded evidence of sobs, sniffles, and the occasional blown nose. As if on cue, Moreau holds out the box for her to pluck a fresh one. The doctor then turns her attention to the book and silently reads Shai's descriptions of the past week and her theories of why Sephiroth has suddenly distanced himself from her, none of them correct and all of them self-deprecating. Moreau hands the book back to Shai, who is ready for another clean tissue.

"First of all, please do not disregard how you are feeling as 'silly'. You have a tender heart. It allows you to see the goodness in people. That is a wonderful trait to have. Secondly, that list you made of possible wrongs you have committed? It is what is referred to in professional circles as bullshit, if you'll pardon my language, but that's the most appropriate word for it. You have done nothing wrong. Understand?" Shai nods, but not convincingly enough for Moreau.

"Shai? Do you understand? Believe me when I say, this has nothing to do with you. When something weighs heavily on Sephiroth's mind, he does not always handle it in a healthy or constructive way. He can become quite intimidating. I mean, more so than he already is." Moreau manages to coax a smile from Shai wide enough to brighten her eyes with mirth and shed unspilled tears. She wraps her arm around the young woman's shoulders and gives her a squeeze, pleased she has accepted her comfort. 

"Now, I need to go speak with my patient." Moreau hands the box of tissues to Shai only to have her throw it aside and grab her by the wrist with both hands as she tries to climb off the bed. She is looking at her imploringly.

"Shai, I know we have not known each other for very long, but I'm asking you to trust me. Please?" Shai releases her wrist. She picks up the sketchbook, writes a few sentences, and hands it to Moreau. Then she signs for the doctor's benefit.

_I do trust you, doctor. I am not thinking straight. I am just so confused._

"Do not worry, my dear. Everything's going to be alright."

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Dr. Moreau doesn't bother to knock, already knowing what she is going to find, but still tests the doorknob to see if it is locked. It turns without resistance and opens on to a darkened room. Not having the general's exceptional eyesight, Moreau dims the lights to their lowest setting. He is in the center of the bed, one arm lying outstretched, the other draped over his eyes. In different circumstances, Moreau would have immediately pointed out in jest how he appeared to be acting out a scene from a Shakespearean play. All that is missing is a skull in his hand and a ruff around his neck. She walks to the side of the bed where he promptly moves his arm to allow her to sit. Moreau reclines against the headboard and stretches out her legs, crossing them at the ankles.

"She's worried about you."

"I know."

"She thought you two were making progress."

"I know."

"Is she wrong?"

"No."

"Then explain this to me."

"I can't."

"Why not?" He uncovers his eyes and looks up at Moreau.

"Promise me you will stop and check in on her."

"You're deflecting."

"Promise me."

"I promise, but you must tell me why this particular treatment has you so on edge?"

"They were supposed to end. This was to be my last. That was the purpose of Thursday's dinner with President Shinra. A celebration, of sorts. But then I got word that Hojo finagled his way into an invitation. Throughout the entire evening he had the president's ear, delighting him with scientific breakthroughs and new discoveries, and by the night's end, that bastard had persuaded Shinra to allow another full course of new treatments." 

"I'm so sorry, Sephiroth. But that only explains your feelings towards the outcome of the dinner meeting, not towards this treatment. It was scheduled weeks before. Has there been a change in the procedure?"

"No."

"Is it of a longer duration than usual?"

"No." He covers his face with his hands, using his fingertips to massage his forehead.

"Then what? Help me understand." 

"I don't know."

"Excuse me?" He yanks his hands away and looks at Moreau, enunciating each word distinctly.

"I. Don't. Know."

"I never thought I would say this word twice in less than an hour, but bullshit." His eyes flash ominously, jagged streaks of lightning striking emerald green.

"Don't try me, Sybelline."

"Then give me an answer that is fit for a man of your age and not a thirteen year old."

"Her."

"Shai."

"Who else would I be speaking of?"

"Don't get snippy with me. You said you would handle it. Have you not said anything to her yet?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to lie to her." Sephiroth sits up and leans against the headboard, drawing his legs up to cross one over the other. 

"I do not want to give her a reason to distrust me," he says quietly, his eyes cast down, "I don't want her to fear me." Moreau reaches over and takes one of his hands in hers. 

"Don't underestimate her, Sephiroth. I have read her background check. Shai went through a devastating trauma that robbed her of her parents and nearly her life. She persevered, recovered from serious physical injuries, learned a new way to communicate, and adapted to life on her own at eighteen in a new environment. She's strong." Moreau may be right, but Sephiroth remembers the sadness that dulled her bright eyes and tinged her rosy spirit with grey shadow. The vulnerability that seeped into her smile at the mention of her mother and father. Shai may possess great strength, but does he really wish to test it by leading her down the darker paths that he is forced to travel? Shining light on the shadows that hide his history? His life? 

"I will tell her that I have my annual medical exam in the clinic upstairs," he says haltingly, testing each word carefully, "I will tell her it is a multi-day procedure." Moreau squeezes his hand assuringly. 

"That sounds perfect."

"It is still a lie."

"But closer to the truth than anything else you could fabricate."

"You may be right." She gives his hand another squeeze. This time he reciprocates.

"You know I am."

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Moreau pauses outside Shai's bedroom. Sephiroth has once again put her in a delicate position. She does not want to lie to the young woman anymore than he does. Moreau tries to convince herself that her deceit is nothing more than a little white lie used in its noblest fashion to prevent passing on a harmful truth. Instead, her rationalization weighs heavy on her. She enters Shai's room and tells the awaiting woman that she is in no way or form responsible for Sephiroth's conduct.

"Once his thoughts have quieted and his reasoning has returned, I am sure he will come and give you an explanation." 

_Thank you._ Shai expresses the enormity of her gratitude by giving Sybelline an extended hug. The relief she feels is beyond compare. Moreau is preparing to leave until Shai reaches for the sleeve of her coat and gives it a gentle tug for her to stay. She then snatches the sketchbook off of her bed and begins to write down all the questions that have pestered her since Moreau left to speak with the general. How long has his mind been in such turmoil? Does it have to do with his dinner engagement on Thursday? Why did he not turn to Dr. Moreau in confidence? Shai punctuates the last sentence and hands the book to Moreau. The doctor reads the short list and realizes that these are not simple dichotomous questions. Yes or no simply will not do. She seats herself at the end of Shai's bed and takes a deep breath.

"OK. In answer to your first question, not very long. Maybe a week or so. Question two, he received bad news at the dinner meeting, so yes, it has been a contributing factor. And lastly, he can be extremely stubborn. Extremely. He thought he could handle this on his own." Moreau hands the sketchbook back to Shai who immediately writes a follow-up question, and gives the book back to her. 

"How would he handle it on his own? Oh! Um, if I had to guess, either an intense workout in his dojo or going to his office to do work or to the training room on the 49th floor to battle against holographic behemoths. Some means to distract himself." Shai requests the sketchbook by holding out her hand, then proceeds to write faster than before, words running into the next, letters mashed into one another. It reminds Moreau of her frantic writing the night she was invited for dinner. Shai finishes two pages later and thrusts the book at her. As the doctor reads, she immediately regrets the assumptions she made concerning the general's stress management. Shai has seized upon one word and has run with it.

"Shai, you have this all wrong! You were not merely another means of distraction!" Shai grabs the book to write her reply and shows it to Moreau. 

"How can you be so sure? How? Because I have known him all his life. My career, my adult life revolves around him, from the day he took his first steps to his battlefield promotion to general to helping him move into this condo. Let me put this in perspective for you. Sephiroth would not have risked his identity being exposed if you were solely a distraction." Shai contemplates Moreau's words, the tip of her pencil poised over a blank page. This new aspect has her thoughts tumbling down a rocky hillside of self-doubt and irrationality. This morning she truly believed she had something to do with the general accompanying her out onto the streets of Midgar. She chalked it up to a combination of curiosity and boredom, even though he presented signs that something was vexing him since Thursday.

It was not until she heard the word "distract" that it made more sense. Shai should have known it had nothing to do with her, that there was an ulterior motive. Why would he want to spend time with his housekeeper, especially knowing her for so short a time? How arrogant, how naive. This is the revelation she shared with Moreau, but clearly the doctor disagreed. It took her to point out a risk to the general to show Shai how her hasty deduction led her to the wrong conclusion. She finally lowers the pencil to the page, scratching out her apology for her presumptuousness, her selfishness. Shai passes the book to Moreau. After reading it, she closes the book. Moreau clasps Shai's hand and smiles at how small it feels compared with the hand she held moments before.

"My sweet girl. You are much too hard on yourself. Let the general tell you himself why he spent time with you. I am sure you will feel better hearing it from him." Shai leans towards Moreau and rests her head on her shoulder.

_I am sorry._

"No more apologies."

 _Ok._

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai takes a long, hot shower before bedtime, allowing the water and steam to cleanse away dried tears, ease tense muscles, and free her from the day's anxiety. She turns off the water, steps out onto the bath mat, and wraps a bath sheet around her body. She applies moisturizer to her face and neck, then grabs a second towel to soak up the excess water from her hair, drying dripping strands into their natural curls. She switches the bathroom light off and walks into her bedroom to find the general seated on her bed, casually flipping through her large sketchbook. He has also bathed and is dressed for bed. She feels obligated to say something about him freely entering her room, but to sign now would risk her towel coming undone. He turns to the last page and closes the book. 

"Forgive me for entering without permission," he says, staring down at the book's cover, "but I need to speak to you and I did not want to wait." Moreau knew he would come, Shai thinks to herself. And why? Because she knows him. She seats herself on the bed, keeping a respectable distance between them. When he feels the bed give under her weight, he looks up at her and his eyes flash before he can contain himself. He assumed she would exit the bathroom in a dressing gown or her pyjamas, not a tightly wrapped towel revealing her curvaceous figure and long legs. A gentleman would leave to allow her to dress, but looking at the blush on her cheeks, the damp curls cascading down her back, and the rosy sheen on her skin left by the hot water, and his civility is nowhere to be found. He wants this vision of her to take with him tomorrow, to get him through the treatment, through the pain.

"I owe you an apology. No matter what events may be influencing my behaviour, it is no excuse for me to lash out at you as I did. I am sorry." Shai tucks the corner of the towel a little tighter to better secure it before she signs.

 _I accept your apology, general. My actions this afternoon were only out of concern. I did not mean to upset you further._

"Why does it sound like my apology has turned into yours?"

 _I'm sorry._

"Shai?"

_Yes?_

"No more."

 _All right._

"I've also come to tell you that I will not be home this week. I have my annual physical upstairs in the Shinra clinic. It is an extensive exam that takes days to complete." 

_Thank you for letting me know. I hope everything goes well._

"I'm sure it will." He stands and returns the sketchbook to where he found it, then walks to the door. He turns to face Shai, memorizing every detail to take with him to floor 68.

"Good night, Shai."

_Good night, general._


	11. A "Mother's" Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! Lots of rewrites with this one. Lots of anxiety too. Always with the worrying. I have a feeling it is going to persist the deeper into the story we go. Take a deep breath, girl. In. Out.
> 
> Enjoy!

At just shy of five in the morning, Sephiroth steps out of his bedroom and quietly closes the door. The treatment is scheduled for five thirty in the main laboratory on the 68th floor. He is to arrive with an empty stomach, but is allowed clear liquids. He goes into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water out of the fridge. As he takes drink after drink, his mind drifts to his sordid history with the 68th floor and the main laboratory. The 68th floor, where he was confined and isolated in his formative years, and the main laboratory, where he has been subjected to heinous acts from infancy to adulthood. He snickers to himself. Main laboratory. The designation is absurd. That lab was designed for one particular individual and one individual only; Shinra's greatest genetic achievement, General Sephiroth. Only his body has been secured to the stainless steel exam table, only his body has been locked in the SCU. It should be given the more appropriate designation of Sephiroth's laboratory.

He finishes off the water and tosses the bottle in the recycle bin. He walks to the front doors and hesitates, his hand poised over the doorknob. He looks towards the hallway. He's tempted to go to her room, gaze on her as she sleeps. Not that he needs to. All he has to do is close his eyes. His memory will reveal her dark lashes sprayed against her cheeks, the hint of pink in her complexion, her lips parted slightly, her hair lying in thick coils on the bedding, the slow rise and fall of her chest, and her legs drawn up under her. In her peacefulness, he finds serenity. Taking a great amount of restraint, he resists the temptation and exits the condo. He holds his security ID to the second elevator's card reader and after a short hesitation, the doors open . He enters and presses the button marked 68. The doors slide close and the elevator begins to rise. In Shai's room, she stirs at the sound of the machinery engaging.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai awakens late, around eight and plods into the kitchen. She fell asleep later than usual, her mind reliving Sunday's events over and over. Something isn't sitting right with her. She knows physicals can be unpleasant for both sexes, but she has never fallen to pieces over one. And what procedures can be so long in duration that it would take a week's time to complete them? Perhaps, there are tests that the general must undergo that are unnecessary for the normal civilian. That is the only explanation that makes sense.

She makes an omelet for her morning meal and sets it at her place at the bar. She pulls a cookbook from the collection on the counter, sits down, and plans a light meal menu for herself while she eats. Simple recipes of soups, sandwiches, and salads. She completes it by the time she finishes her breakfast. She then gets herself ready for her weekly jaunt to the grocery store. It's officially autumn now and the wind brings chilly northern air south from the Icicle Seas. Autumn is Shai's favourite season. Unfortunately, there are few trees in Midgar. Instead, she enjoys the season by thinking back on the fall foliage of her old village and home until her eyes brim with tears. Then it is time to return to the present and her life amid the concrete, asphalt, and grey landscape of Midgar.

Shai finds her visits to the grocery store are becoming a test of wits and ingenuity. The proprietor's wife is now insisting that Shai stay and enjoy a midday meal with herself and her husband at the small bistro situated at the front of the building, complete with round wrought iron tables set for two, grape vines hanging heavy with fruit from a trellis overhead, and a modest bar in the corner selling a variety of reds and whites. When she politely declines, the wife changes tactics and invites her to dinner. One of these days, her persistence will pay off and Shai will give in and accept her invitation. There's just one complication. The wife demands that Shai bring her handsome "friend" with her. Shai tries to tell her that her "friend" will likely be too busy to attend; he has a very important job, but the sweet lady will have none of it. Still, Shai has to admit; she would be curious to see the general's reaction to the woman's request. 

On her way home, she hears her text notification play its funky digital tune. She pulls the phone from her bag and is not surprised when she reads the name: Moreau. Already the mother hen is checking up on her chick. Shai selects the text; 

Would you like to come to my place for dinner? 

Hmm. Shai is tempted. She imagines Sybelline's home painted in warm colours, furnished with an eclectic variety of pieces decorated with pillows stacked two, three deep, and homey touches filling open surfaces and wall space. As for the meal, Shai has no idea. Moreau has never mentioned if she enjoys cooking or if she cooks or whether or not she even enters her kitchen. But as much as Shai would love to accept her invite, her heart isn't into going out this evening, even if it's only three floors. She planned on being a homebody tonight. She wonders if the doctor would be amenable to having dinner here, where Shai can make something simple and they can relax on the couch afterwards? Only one way to find out. Shai types out a reply;

How about I cook?  
Up here by 6:00pm  
I'm making spinach, hummus,  
and bell pepper wraps

She arrives home, sheds her outerwear, and goes into the kitchen. However, when she reaches the island bar, she needs to stop, take a deep breath, and steady herself. Since reaching the lobby, Shai has been troubled by her dwindling energy, especially so soon in the day, no doubt from her troubled night's sleep coupled with the change in weather and her brisk morning walk. She makes an early lunch, assembling a plate filled with foods to fuel her body: an apple, orange, and banana along side two bowls, one with oatmeal, the other sliced strawberries coated with vanilla yogurt. She realizes her lunch bears an eerie resemblance to breakfasts from mornings past, save for the double portions of fruit and porridge. Well, no matter. She needs to boost her energy, and this is the perfect meal to do it. She's enjoying the strawberries in yogurt when her phone alerts her to a new text. She presses the highlighted area on the display. It reads; see you at 6:00! Excellent, she thinks. An uncomplicated dinner and pleasant conversation. Maybe another bottle of wine? She can only hope. 

After a long bath, hot enough to steam the glass like winter frost, Shai puts on some soft, comfortable casuals, pulls a lightweight throw out of the armoire, and heads out to the living room. She turns on the fire and stretches out on the couch. Moreau will be here in a couple of hours. She has time for an afternoon nap. Shai sets her phone alarm for five and settles into the couch pillows. Staring at the flickering motion of the fire, her eyelids begin to feel weighted, and soon she is snoring lightly, wrapped in a cocoon of knitted wool.

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Moreau's morning seems interminable. Her thoughts stray from the unfinished reports, evaluations, and research scattered across her desk. They fail to decipher the words spoken in her morning meetings or during conversations on the phone. They are focused solely on one room, the only room in the Shinra building constructed of reinforced state-of-the-art materials and equipped with advanced security technology, all to contain, imprison, and, if need be, disable one individual. That individual, the people's hero, is the closest she will ever have to a child of her own, a son, and he has been up in that room for six hours. Six hours. Her hatred for her colleague begins to seethe like molten rock boiling and swirling, threatening to violently erupt from within its earthen confines. Every treatment, every new procedure, every poison concocted, her repugnance for Hojo grows.

When the clock hands finally align on twelve, Moreau throws her lab coat on her chair, locks the office door, and is down the hall in a flash. She reaches the elevators and presses the up button repeatedly like a jackhammer cracking concrete. Colleagues give her peculiar looks as they wait for their transportation to take them to their respective floors, but Moreau doesn't care. She's about to give in to her impatience and take the stairs when her elevator arrives. She enters, scans her security card, jackhammers button 68, then the button to close the doors, allowing not one other passenger to enter the car. She takes several deep breaths as she ascends. She cannot let him see her all riled up. He saw her in a moment of weakness before. Never again.

The doors open onto floor 68, not a white coat or SOLDIER to be seen. That can mean only one thing; he poses no threat. Deep breath, Sybelline, deep breath. This is not your first venture into hostile territory. You're a veteran in these matters. She walks down to the double doors centered halfway down the hall. The silence is unnerving. Normally, there are whirls, beeps, and low humming coming from diagnostic equipment, but now? It is deathly quiet. Moreau cautiously walks into the lab. All lights are off except for two desk lamps on either side of the room. The surgical light system over the examination table is off, the table bare and smelling of disinfectant. Whatever "treatment" he underwent is over. She looks at the SCU. Lying at its center, curled in a fetal position, is Sephiroth. 

With his back to her, Moreau cannot see whether he is conscious or not, but, as she approaches, the dim yellow beams cast from the desk lamp reveal he has been left to lie on the cold padded floor in nothing but his boxer briefs. When she is close enough to lay her hands on the curved polycarbonate wall, she can see he is shaking, either from the temperature of the containment unit or a high fever. Damn you, Hojo! Damn you and your sadistic tendencies! Moreau goes to the computer on the desk and types in a command that provides heat to the padded floor. She goes to a nearby cabinet and pulls out a pillow and two thermal cotton blankets. She swipes her ID over the unit's security pad, and pulls the door open. 

His eyes are closed, his head tucked towards his chest, his arms and legs drawn up tight against his body. Moreau unfurls one of the blankets and drapes it over him. The second he feels the soft weave touch his skin, his head jerks up and his eyes snap open. Moreau nearly tumbles backwards trying to maintain her balance. He speaks, his voice hoarse.

"Who's there?"

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai jerks awake minutes before the alarm is set to go off, her brow glistening with sweat, her hairline damp, and her body trembling. She was in the grips of a nightmare unlike anything she has ever had before, tricking her senses with its vividity and preying on her worst fears. In the dreamscape, she is strapped to a steel table surrounded by medical personnel sewing up hundreds of cuts on her body. Her voice has returned and she is pleading for them to give her something for the pain, until her attention is drawn to a surgical glove holding a scalpel. Before she can beg for them to stop, they cut a long, thin incision across her throat. When she glances at the hand again, the medical glove has been replaced with black leather and they are wielding a kodachi. As she bleeds out, her head falls to the right and she sees the general bound to a table similar to hers. He is staring back at her, and is about to speak when Shai awakens. She now sits on the couch, clutching her chest, trying to regulate her breathing. She is still seated there, her head now in her hands when the doorbell rings. She jumps from the couch, composes herself the best she can as she walks/runs to her room to grab the sketchbook, then runs back into the living room to open the door before the bell rings a second time.

 _Hello, doctor._ Moreau points at Shai, a look of joyful surprise on her face.

"Ah ha! I know what you said there! Hello, Shai." Sybelline moves to embrace her, but stops when she sees the condition the young woman is in.

"What is wrong?" Shai jots down one word, followed by its sign, not knowing it is unnecessary.

_Nothing._

"Ha! I understood that too. It's not nothing. What's happened?" She writes short answers and shows them to Moreau.

_I had a nightmare. That is all. It is over now._

"Hmm. A nightmare, eh? Alright. I'll let this go. For the time being." Moreau sets her purse down on a bar stool and turns to Shai.

"I don't know about you, dear, but I'm hungry. Let me help you with dinner."

After another fine meal, the ladies kick back on the couch, enjoying the warmth of the fire and a pot of chamomile tea. After telling her about her day, the doctor asks Shai if she would like to talk about the nightmare. Shai answers that she needs more time. There are elements of the dream that have rekindled emotions she has worked hard to keep scattered amongst the ashes of her past. When they are extinguished once more, Shai will tell her. She is interested in the counsellor's professional analysis, especially the appearance of the general. Shai grabs her sketchbook, writes a question for Moreau, and then signs for her.

_Have you seen the general today?_

"Yes, I have. Around lunch."

_How is he?_ Moreau struggles to keep her eyes from tearing up. She releases a sigh and, as instructed, lies.

"He is doing well."

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

"Who's there," he repeats, "Sybelline? Is it you?" Tears spill down Moreau's cheeks. You're getting soft in your senior years, old girl. Where is your strength? You need to be strong. Even as an adult, he needs you to be his rock. She kneels down beside him.

"Yes. It's me." He turns his head towards the sound of her voice. What she sees brings a fresh wave of tears. The pupil and iris in each eye are clouded milky white and there is bruising not only surrounding the eyes, but on the skin around the orbital bones. Sybelline can't help it; she lets out a soft sob.

"Oh, my boy. What has he done to you?" Sephiroth sharpens his hearing to pinpoint Moreau's exact position next to him. His right hand emerges from beneath the blanket and finds her cheek, his fingertips tracing the tracks of her tears. 

"Please don't cry. You have seen me in worse condition before." 

"I know, but in all your years in this laboratory, this is the first time you have suffered this particular side effect." Moreau clasps his hand in hers and brings it to her lips for an affectionate peck. 

"The blindness is temporary. Hojo assures me my sight will return by nightfall." The mere mention of that man's name sends Moreau into a tirade.

"That son of a bitch, bastard, sociopathic, sadistic-"

"Sybelline, the cameras are active."

"- egotistical, ass-kissing, maniacal tyrant!" Sephiroth chuckles to himself.

"Do you feel better?"

"Surprisingly, no. I'll feel better once you are looked after properly. I've turned on the heated floor. You should be feeling it by now." Moreau feels his forehead with her hand.

"No fever. Thank the gods for small miracles. I've brought you a pillow and a second thermal blanket. Between those and the warmth radiating from the floor, you should be good until the morning. I will check up on you after my dinner with Shai." He tries to prop himself up on his elbow, but his body is still too weak from the treatment and he thuds to the floor. He makes do with staring vacantly at the unit's ceiling. 

"You're having dinner with Shai?" 

"Yes. We made arrangements late this morning." 

"What time must you be there?"

"Six."

"If, by chance, she should ask about me, tell her I'm doing well."

"She's not a monster, Sephiroth. She will ask." A smile teases the corners of his lips.

"Now, you need to rest, and it just so happens my schedule is free." Moreau gently lifts his head to put the pillow in place.

"You're not going back to work, are you?" More of a statement than a question. She unfolds the second blanket and lays it over him, then kneels back down to tuck the blankets' edges securely around him. She gives her answer as she continues her ministrations.

"Yes and no. I will go back to my office at the end of the day to grab my things and lock the door. As for the few calls I still have to make this afternoon, I can do that from the desk over there." 

"Sybelline, I can't move."

"You don't need to move. You need to sleep. Are you warm enough?"

"More than enough."

"Then nighty night."

"Sybelline?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you."

"You are most welcome, my dear boy." Moreau brushes stray fringe aside to join the longer strands to give him a tender kiss on his forehead, a reminder that no matter what trials he must endure, in the end he has a mother's love.


	12. Only You

Sephiroth's eyesight returns Monday evening with all the genetic enhancements he possessed at the start of the treatment. He manages to sleep well through the night, tucked tightly in the thermal blankets. The following morning the sun has barely tipped the horizon when he is rudely awakened by Hojo and his team, and escorted into the lab. Once removed from the SCU, the heated floor is deactivated, the unit stripped clean, sealed, and disinfected with a gaseous agent. They prepare him for Tuesday's treatment: securing him to the examination table and putting him under heavy sedation. Hojo and the white coats then begin a lengthy process of injections, needles, and electrical stimuli that leave Sephiroth partially paralyzed well into the night, when his mobility eventually returns. 

Thankfully, the procedure's effects leave his extraordinary muscular power undamaged. Even in a weakened condition, he still moves to the SCU with a predatory grace. His second night in the lab does not go as smoothly as the first. Despite Sybelline's order to provide the same amenities for him to sleep comfortably, his body is restless on the unforgiving padding, his senses assaulted by the pungent medicinal odor left by the disinfectant. Inevitably, the nightmares come, fed by traumatic memories of fear and pain suffered alone in this containment unit.

Wednesday's treatment is Sephiroth's breaking point. Bound to the table, injected with a serum that burns through his veins, his body temperature spikes high enough to cause seizures. He is left on the table throughout the morning into late afternoon with nothing but machines monitoring his vitals, computers inputting data, and cameras recording details and developments as the treatment runs its course. When his body ceases to convulse and he is safe to be moved, he is transported to the SCU to ride out the symptoms of the high temperature. The white coats have failed to leave a pillow or blankets for him. He lies curled in on himself, weak, racked with chills and muscle aches. It is then that he makes a decision. He only needs to wait for Moreau to arrive for her nightly visit to implement his plan. It will not be well received, but he feels it is what's best for him, physically and mentally.

To say his plan is not well received is an understatement. Sybelline insists he recover at her place if he is determined not to remain in the laboratory, but he is adamant. He will spend the night in his bed. 

"And how do you plan on entering your home without alerting Shai?" asks Moreau as she assists him with his clothes.

"Are you forgetting who you are speaking to?"

"You are hardly at the height of your abilities at the moment, my boy."

"I can manage," he quips as he wavers while raising his arms to pull his v-neck sweater over his head. The timing could not have been more perfect. Moreau is quick to steady him, pursing her lips together to repress a smile. She pulls his hair from underneath the pullover, running her fingers through its length to rid him of any tangles. To put on his shoes, Sybelline ushers him towards a desk chair nearby. As he takes the single step from the unit, his eyes squinch shut and he begins to sway. He raises his right hand to press his fingers and thumb into his temples. With his left hand, he latches onto Moreau's shoulder as if his life depends on it. The poor woman can barely remain standing with the extra weight exerted on her. 

"Sephiroth! What is it?!" He is slow to answer. His hand continues to massage into the temporal muscles. His eyes open slowly.

"It will pass. Or so I have been told." 

"This is ridiculous! You are in no condition to care for yourself."

"I just need rest. For that, all I need to do is reach my bedroom."

**/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\**

Shai planned to treat her week alone as a mini vacation: sleep-in late, read and draw to her heart's content, maybe give her cooking skills a rest and order takeaway. The possibilities are endless. Instead, her circadian rhythm wakes her at the crack of dawn. The refrigerator is packed with a week's worth of ingredients so there is little reason to deviate from the planned menu and order out. As for reading and drawing, her thoughts wander from the open pages to recent experiences in her life or to memories surfacing from the old and her muse cannot concentrate on one piece alone. Her life has changed perceptibly in the last month, her routine unrecognizable from the one she left behind in her apartment. Even after almost four weeks of new employment and a new home, Shai is still searching for her groove, a harmonious blend of the old with the new.

It's late Wednesday night. A quiet end to a very productive day of cleaning. Shai has bathed, dressed in her jammies, and is relaxing on her bed. She has just finished a lengthy chat with Moreau via text, catching up on each other's day and discussing possible plans to get together later in the week. As she did on Monday and Tuesday, Shai asks how the general is doing and as the doctor did on Monday and Tuesday, Moreau lies and says he is doing fine. She is still smiling at the good news as she walks through the darkened condo into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water. Walking back to her bedroom, she hears a loud thud come from the general's bedroom. She pauses, listening. Seconds pass, maybe a minute, and nothing, just the hum of the refrigerator's ice maker. She moves closer to the bedroom door. Still quiet. She didn't imagine it. She sets her water down on a nearby end table and tries the door handle. It is unlocked. She turns it slowly and opens the door.

The room is pitch black. She turns the lights on to a medium setting and inspects the room. Everything is in its place. Everything is in order. She walks further in. All she sees is an immaculately made bed, polished furniture, and her reflection in the mirror. She is certain she did not imagine the sound. There is only one more place to check. She enters the bathroom, her hand feeling for the light switch, when she stubs her toe against something hard on the floor. Her finger flips the lights on. Shai's eyes widen in shock and her fingers rise to touch her lips. Lying on the floor, facedown and unconscious, is the general. 

The first few minutes are a blur for Shai. She remembers kneeling at his side, trying to keep a cool head, and determine the seriousness of his condition. He is shivering uncontrollably and is shining with perspiration, causing anything in contact with his skin to adhere to his body. When Shai feels his forehead, it is hot to the touch. He burns with fever. She sits back on her heels, worrying her lower lip, and tries to decide what she should do. Idiot, she thinks to herself. He needs a doctor. She dashes to her bedroom and grabs her phone. Walking briskly back to the general's bathroom en suite, her attempt at composing a text on the way is botched by the bounce in her step. She kneels beside him once more frantically typing on her keypad, thankful for the autocorrect function. She is about to send the text to Moreau when she sees a flash of movement in her periphery and her phone goes speeding across the floor to smack against the wall. 

"No Moreau." Shai looks down to see the general's eyes, dulled by fever, staring back at her. 

"Only you." She is about to protest when he reaches out to silence her, clasping her hands in one of his. His mouth opens to continue to speak when, without warning, his eyes squeeze shut, his brow draws together, and his breathing comes in sharp bursts. His grip on her hands strengthens, crushing her fingers painfully against one another. She struggles to free herself, but after several seconds, his hand slides from hers to flop onto the tile. His eyes open slowly, the lids heavy with exhaustion. 

"Please, Shai. Only you." She offers a smile and nods. What the hell are you doing, girl?

Before anything else, she must get him off the bathroom floor and into the bedroom. The general is semi-conscious, which works in her favour, but he is struggling to keep his eyes open. Shai is unsure whether he will be able to move under his own power with his strength so clearly depleted. That raises the question of whether she will be able to move him on her own without injury to the general or herself? She places her hand on his shoulder and gives him a gentle shake. The sudden movement opens his eyes wide enough to focus on Shai's hands.

_General, I need to get you into the bedroom. Are you able to stand and walk with my help?_

"There is only one way of knowing." With his hands braced under him, he begins to push upwards off the floor, his progress halting, and soon his arms tremble and threaten to give way, but Shai is swift to act. Still kneeling beside him, she rises off her haunches, wraps her arms underneath his, and lifts with all she has. Together, they manage to pull him to his hands and knees, his head drooping towards the floor. That little bit of exertion has weakened him and taxed his muscles. His body is unsteady and is at risk of collapsing again. Shai shuffles on her knees to position herself in front of him, planting her feet as firmly as she can against the smooth tile, and with a bit of prompting, coaxes him to grip her atop her shoulders. His breathing laboured, he raises his head and rests it against his right hand, his fringe draped over Shai's pyjama top or tickling exposed skin. 

"I just need a moment." Shai nods in understanding. She watches the long strands of his hair loosen and separate as his back rises with each deep inhalation. Eventually, they slip along the soft fibers of his sweater to coil on the floor. Her attention is alerted elsewhere when she feels his grip tighten and senses he is suffering from the same affliction he had moments before. Drawing in a sharp breath, she stays perfectly still, the pain growing in intensity as his fingertips dig into her flesh and muscle. Seconds tick by and he finally relaxes. Shai can breathe easy and enough time has now passed that the general can as well.

"I'm ready." Shai grips him by his upper arms and, together, they push him upright to rest back on his heels, but the moment he is kneeling vertically, his eyes close and he pitches forward. Dead weight strikes her with enough force to send her skidding backwards across the tile, until her feet catch and bring them to a jarring stop. Her body strains to hold him up. Probably all his bloody muscle. Shai knows she'll be feeling the aches and pain later. Right now, her heart is racing, not just from the physical effort, but from the general's face nestled nicely in the crook of her neck. It almost diverts her from the question of whether she can handle him on her own. The answer is a resounding no. She is stuck.

Shai can try to lay him back down, but she is afraid they will topple over in the process and land in a heap on the hard tile or her strength will fail and she'll drop him alone. She can wait and see if he awakens on his own, but who knows how long that will be? She can give him a shake, but that comes with the obvious risks. She has no choice. She has to set him back onto the floor. The physics seem simple. Both are already kneeling. Let gravity do its work and drop them into a seated position, then she can lie him back on the tile. Shai takes a deep breath. She has never been a science-minded individual. Her strengths are in the arts. What does she know about physics? She prepares to move him, shifting her weight, tightening her hold, when fortune favours the brave.

"Shai." He breathes her name against her skin. With great care, he raises his head, his eyes meeting hers, the cloudiness and confusion of sleep fading to clarity. Shai would love to be able to explain how their present circumstances came to be, but her arms are wrapped around him in an awkward embrace. All she knows is they need to either develop a new strategy or continue with the one they have in motion. Since she has no way of speaking to him, Shai makes the executive decision to continue on. She motions downwards with her eyes, praying he will deduce what message she is trying to convey. She is not disappointed. He completes their embrace and, working again as a team, they rise in a careful and considered manner until they are both standing. Well, the shorter person is standing. The taller one is leaning.

Though his eyes are closed, Shai knows he is still conscious. Otherwise, his knees would have buckled and they would've dropped like felled trees. He needs to rest. His body towers over Shai as he leans against her, his right arm hooked around her neck for stability. She supports him in turn with her left arm curled tight around his waist and the other holding his hand. The right one. The tips of which are dangling precariously close to her breast. Knowing it is not intentional does not stop Shai's cheeks from flaming hot. She looks up at him and waits for his cue. In time, his eyes open and he nods gingerly to proceed. 

They journey from the bathroom to the bedroom, their progress governed by the stagger in his gait and Shai's struggle to keep him balanced and advancing towards their ultimate goal: his bed. The time passing seems interminable. They are forced to pause every several steps for a rest and readjustment of arms and hands. At one point, his legs begin to tremble and Shai is positive they are about to take a spill onto the carpet, but all he needs is a breather. Eventually, they finish crossing the short span between themselves and the bed and, together, fall back onto the mattress. Shai tries to disentangle their limbs with as little disturbance to the general as possible. She is not met with much success, his body jerking back and forth, a low moan shaken from his lips. She sits up. Exhaustion bears down on her, but she fights hard against it. Her fatigue cannot possibly compare to his.

She turns her head to look down at him lying half on, half off the bed. She can't very well leave him like this. Since contacting Dr. Moreau is off-limits, Shai must rely on memories of steps her mother would have taken if a member of their family fell sick. The most obvious is plenty of rest. She's working on that part. Next, drink plenty of fluids to keep the body cool and prevent dehydration. That one may prove difficult. Thirdly, administer acetaminophen or ibuprofen to help with muscle aches and reduce temperature. That one can go in same category as drinking fluids. Take a warm bath or apply damp washcloths to the forehead and wrists to lower the fever. Uh, no on the bath. A big no. Huge no. Her body blushes all over when her imagination simply tries to conjure images of water droplets on bare skin. Shai slams the door against those thoughts quickly. The warm compresses might be a good idea, but first there is the last step; wear light clothing. He has on a light wool sweater layered over a white t-shirt and black jeans, the furthest from light clothing you can get. That means only one thing, and Shai has to muster her courage and put aside her timidity to do it. 

Her full-body blush returns with a vengeance. His face is tilted away from her, covered by fringe sticky with sweat. Shai cannot tell if he is conscious or not. She takes special care and leans over him, pulling the strands to the side with a light touch. His eyes are closed, but his head turns towards her nonetheless. Shai is thankful when he voices what she cannot.

"I need to undress. I'll need your help."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the chapter's short length. August has been a difficult month for me, both physically and mentally. I try to write every day, but found myself going days without opening my laptop. The desire to write was there, but my body said, "Not today." Knock on wood, I am back to my daily ritual.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed number twelve!


	13. The Caregiver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive. I have not given up. I have been absent because I hurt my S1 joint in my sacrum, back in September, and was unable to sit upright for months without experiencing extreme pain. It is under control now, thanks to intensive physical therapy and I can now sit for short bouts at a time. I may not be able to post as often as I like, but please know, I will not leave this story to languish. It's my baby. I hope this chapter does not disappoint. You had to wait long enough for it. Enjoy!

"I need to undress. I'll need your help."

Sephiroth opens his eyes, the brilliant green dimmed like warm seas shadowed by storm-blackened skies. They focus on Shai, either waiting for her to speak or leap into action. For her, leaping into action is not an option. He will definitely need to take the lead.

_How would you like to proceed?_

"Help me sit up." Shai stands to face him, her legs wedged between his, to take hold of his hands. At first, his grip is weak, but the second Shai begins to pull, his fingers tighten like a trap. She uses her weight as leverage and leans back, ignoring the ache of worn-out muscles, until he is seated soundly on the side of the bed. She hesitates to let him go until she is certain he can remain upright. She does not wait long enough. He falters and slumps against her. Shai doesn't move. She breathes in quiet rushes of air as she focuses what precious little energy she has on silencing the pounding of her heart. A sound she is sure the general can hear crystal clear with his head resting in the valley of her breasts. Shai drops her gaze. The crown of his head rises and falls in time with her breathing. She desperately calls upon every meditation technique she has seen in a book or online video to control each breath as it enters and leaves her body. She closes her eyes. In, out, in, out. Pull yourself together, girl. He needs your help and care now, not your insecurities and body image issues. Besides, it's unlikely he'll remember any of this come the morning.

Shai grabs him firmly by the shoulders and pushes him back into a seated position. Bracing him with one hand, she gently taps him on the cheek with the other until his eyes open, sluggish and bleary from fever and fatigue. It is obvious that the physical exertion and effects of his illness are threatening to claim what fragile wisps of consciousness he still clings to. There is no time to waste. Exercising greater caution than before, Shai releases him. She slips her hands underneath the hem of his sweater and lifts the garment up, slow and steady, over the general's head, and down his arms, his hair flowing through the neckline to drape over his shoulders and chest. The action causes him to sway dangerously, but Shai is prepared for that eventuality. Her hands fly to his shoulders to stable him. Confident he will not move, she untucks his t-shirt and lifts, doing her best to concentrate on the task at hand as slowly, teasingly, his sculpted torso is revealed. 

Sephiroth stands out among the SOLDIERS for many reasons: his towering height, his silver hair, the felinity of his eyes, his leather coat and pauldrons, his formidable weapon. But he also stands apart for less obvious reasons as well. Hidden underneath that leather coat is a physique commonly seen chiseled into marble by artists rendering the gods: broad shoulders and chest; obliques angled perfectly to his hips; smooth, pale skin, flawless in its beauty; arms muscular and lean from years of training and combat. To put it quite simply, he is perfect. 

Shai is well aware of the gravity of the situation. She has been since the moment she turned on the bathroom light to see her client in urgent need. But she is also a flesh and blood woman. It would go against nature for her not to have some form of emotional and/or physical response to the general's half-naked body. Granted, this is not the first time she has seen him sans shirt, but unlike that time in the kitchen, where she sheltered behind a cookbook to hide her blushing cheeks and appreciative glances, she has to physically interact with him in this state. In short, she has to touch him.

His hair lies against his chest, the long strands dampened from the feverish sheen covering his skin. Shai takes special care as she sweeps them out of the way. Gently, almost tenderly, she places her hands on his shoulders. Any reservations she may have had meet a swift end the moment her fingers feel his heated skin. This man is terribly ill and in need of someone with nothing but his comfort and recovery on her mind. His head begins to slowly sag towards his chest, eyes closed, his body desperate for sleep. Hating herself, Shai taps his cheek again to rouse him. He scowls, surprising her by slapping at her hand in a feeble effort to get her to stop. She knows he wants to rest, and she wants that for him too, but there is still the matter of his pants to remove, and she cannot do it alone.

In one last attempt, she lightly taps him on one cheek and then the other, but as she feared, what remnants of wakefulness he had have now gone. There goes option number one; pull him to a standing position then pray he could remain steady long enough for her to help him shimmy out of his jeans. In retrospect, not a very practical solution. An image of a falling redwood and a lumberjack in a red and black checkered shirt shouting timber comes to mind. And she would be the section of forest floor the tree landed on. Her only choice now is to lie him back down on the bed, unclasp his pants, and pull them off one leg at a time. This option has a number of logistical obstacles. Shai has never undressed a man before. Ever. Even when she first had sex, her partner had undressed himself while Shai did the same. He was a musician, a graduate student of her father. His body was nice, but unremarkable. After all, what sort of muscle mass is a violinist going to develop?

But now? She has a man in front of her. Not a boy who has barely passed through the threshold to manhood, but a man with a body that is the envy of mortal men and the desire of every fawning female. General Sephiroth. That she was able to remove his sweater and shirt was nothing short of a miracle. But now she's moved into territory reserved for lovers. Her dedication from moments before is wavering. Her heart is beginning to palpitate. I can't do this she thinks to herself. I just can't, no matter how sick he is. I'm not a nurse. I'm not even a certified caregiver. I'm a housecleaner and this is above and beyond my pay grade. _You mustn't quit._ Familiar advice. Shai smiles. Her mother's voice brushes against her thoughts with the softness of a downy feather. _He needs you._ She sighs. Her mother is right. She needs to follow through on what she has started whether it be this job, a new drawing, or removing her employer's clothes.

Her eyes fixated on the fastener of his jeans, Shai takes a deep breath, and with trembling hands undoes the button, then slips her fingers under the jean's fly, clasps the metal slider, and slowly pulls down. The zipper's purr seems loud enough to wake the dead or, in this case, a sleeping general. Her heart is now beating at what she is positive is an unhealthy rate, and she has a lump in her throat large enough to choke on. Time moves agonizingly slow until the zipper finally comes to a stop. Shai takes another deep breath before she slips her fingers within the waistband of his jeans, her heart skipping a beat when the tips brush against the elastic band of his underwear. She curls her fingers around the waistband and begins to ease his pants off, struggling with his weight, the bed, and keeping her attention strategically averted from an area that tenaciously pokes and prods at her curiosity. Eventually, she is able to get the denim past his hips and his thighs and clear of the bed. The rest of the removal goes much more smoothly. 

With the worst part over, all Shai has left to do is remove his socks, which she flings towards the laundry hamper. With so much of his body exposed, the effects of the fever are clear to see: the thin layer of sweat, the sickly pallor, and the shivering brought on by chills, no doubt made worse by baring his skin to the air. She needs to get him under a light cover. Anything heavier could raise his temperature. This meant lifting and shifting him until he lies correctly on his bed. Oh, how her muscles are going to loathe her tomorrow. She forgoes the idea of pushing and pulling him across the mattress like some limp rag doll and goes for a much bolder approach. 

Climbing onto the bed, Shai kneels behind his head. Slipping her hands and arms under his shoulders, she runs her hands down his sides until she reaches his waist. Once there, she brings them round to the front of his abdomen and clasps them together, interlocking her fingers for a tight hold. She shifts her footing to accommodate his weight and catches a glimpse of them in the dresser mirror. Shai's eyes peak out from over the general's right shoulder, sticky strands of silver fixed to her face. The rest of her is obscured by his body being raised to rest against hers. She did so well lifting him that Sephiroth's head is craned back to rest atop the crown of her own. No time to be admiring my work, she thinks, if I hold this position much longer, we'll fall backwards.

Ignoring the burn in her muscles and the trembling in her limbs, Shai shuffles towards the head of the bed, slowly directing his body to lie perpendicular with the pillows and headboard. Once in position, she lets her fingers slide apart with the intent of easing him gently onto the mattress, but between Shai's fatigue and the general's size and weight, the redwood comes crashing down upon the forest floor. She is now pinned soundly under the general with her neck bent at an uncomfortable angle and her head pressed into the tufted padding of the headboard. Thankfully, she has the pillows under her to provide cushioning and support. Shai would have thought with all this jostling around, the general would have surely emitted a groan or expressed a huff of air, but nothing. Not a sound. He is firmly in the arms of Hypnos and his sons.

Shai knows she can't very well remain here, but she hasn't the strength to move. Plus there is the matter of his lower legs still dangling over the side of the bed. Dear gods, what am I to do? Whatever it is, she must do it soon. Her body is telling her the hour is late, and it is getting harder and harder to keep focused and alert. There is only one thing she can do and, unfortunately, it will not be done with the delicateness that a patient in his condition deserves. Shai yanks her hands out from under his body, grabs his upper arms and begins to rock him back and forth. Her objective is to get enough momentum to balance him on his side so she can wriggle out from under him. Granted, it increases the pressure put on her own body, but it is a secondary effect she is prepared to endure to reach her end goal. 

With new pains blooming in her shoulder and elbow joints, Shai's determination finally brings rewards. She is able to maneuver Sephiroth onto his right side. Supporting him with her right hand, she awkwardly extricates her body from his. Delicacy be damned, she pulls her hand away to let his body drop onto the mattress, his head flopping to its side, his fringe shrouding his face with silver streaks. She lies still for a few moments to catch her breath. With her breathing slowing, she turns on her side to face her employer. I can't leave him like this, she thinks. He will inhale his hair and choke to death. Crooking her index finger, she gently pulls the strands away, starting from his brow to his chin, and tucks them behind his ear. Shai's mouth hooks up at the end. It's like unwrapping a gift. A beautiful, intelligent, charming gift that wields a sword with such power that the world trembles at his name.

She rises from the bed and walks around to the other side. With one last effort, she lifts his lower legs and places them on the bed. Shai lets out a well-deserved sigh. Done. It only took them into the wee hours of the morning, but he is finally where he should be. Shai goes over to the closet, slides one of the doors open, and takes out a flat sheet. She unfurls it over him, the linen ballooning upwards before floating gracefully down to cover him and the bed. She makes sure the sheet is pulled over his feet and tucked under his chin. Ever the housecleaner, she gathers his discarded clothes and puts them in the hamper. She leaves the bathroom light on, and turns off the recessed lighting. She leaves the door open as she exits his bedroom and makes her way into the kitchen. After that workout, she is left parched and is well deserving of a glass of water. Or two or three.

All Shai desires is to crawl into her bed, disappear under her duvet, and sleep until the sun has passed into the afternoon, but that is not going to happen. Yes, she has him in his bed and his exhaustion has him sleeping, but there is still the matter of his fever. She cannot leave him alone. She needs to stay by his side should he need her during the night. It's the right thing to do. The compassionate thing, and Shai would never forgive herself should his condition worsen and she was not there to help him through it. She turns on the electric kettle for a cup of tea. She's going to need it. She pulls a large glass mixing bowl from one of the lower cupboards and sets it on the counter. To provide relief from the fever, Shai is going to use a tried and true remedy her mother turned to when Shai was young and in the grip of a fever; apply damp washcloths to the forehead and wrists. 

She returns to his room with the mixing bowl and heads straight into the bathroom. She fills it with cool water from the bathtub's faucet and carries it into the bedroom. She sets it on the floor and begins to clear an area on the bedside table to place the bowl. Suddenly, her busy hands come to a stop. There, on the table, partially hidden by one of his philosophy books, is the astronomy book Shai gave him from her father's collection. She stares at it, dumbfounded. What did you think he was going to do with, silly girl? Use it as a doorstop in his office? Maybe a coaster for his morning coffee? Of course he is going to read it! Shai smiles to herself, a puff of pride in her chest, as she moves the books to his dresser. With the bowl in position, she goes back into the bathroom for three washcloths.

Shai submerges the washcloths in the bowl, one by one, the dry fabric darkening as the water absorbs into the natural fibers. A pang of guilt stabs at her heart at taking the risk of disturbing him after labouring so long so he may finally rest, but her hope is this simple remedy will keep his sleep deep and peaceful and free of feverish chills, if only for a few hours. She seats herself on the edge of the bed. Her hands reach for the top hem of the sheet. Gently, she folds it back to his midsection, his body releasing a shiver at the sudden exposure. Shai leans over him and, simultaneously, raises his left arm with her right hand while pulling the sheet up to cover his chest with her left. She then lowers his arm to rest on top of the sheet, his wrist facing upward. She repeats the same process with his right arm. To her relief, he remains quiet and still. 

Shai dips her fingers into the cool water and pulls a dripping washcloth from the bowl. She twists the cloth tightly, wringing fat droplets back into the water. She meticulously folds it into a long strip and drapes it onto the general's forehead, smoothing it with her fingers from hairline to hairline, the slight pressure sending rivulets running down his brow. He frowns the moment the cold hits his skin, a low moan of discontent leaving his lips. Shai knows from experience that while the compress may bring discomfort now, he will soon feel relief. The application of the other two compresses do not go as well as the first. The second the wet fabric touches the sensitive skin of his wrist, his hand jerks and the washcloth slides off. Damp patches dot the fitted sheet marking every failed attempt. Shai is ready to use hair ties to secure them in place, but fears affecting the circulation to his hands. She decides to try one last time, beginning with the arm closest to her. She dips the cloth back into the bowl, submerges it until it is sufficiently soaked through, then wrings any excess back into the water. She folds it neatly into a smaller size, and, with a certain amount of apprehension, places the washcloth on his skin. 

Shai wishes she could say the compress remained in place this time. She wishes she could say he kept nice and still, his hand motionless, with not even the slightest twitch from a finger. But both are lies. The washcloth doesn't just slide from his wrist. It is catapulted across the bed when his hand snaps upwards and seizes Shai by her forearm. With her heart beating its way through her sternum, and her flight response pushing all rational thought from her mind, she tries to pry his fingers from her arm, but his grip holds fast. She watches his left hand slowly rise, remove the washcloth from his forehead, and toss it onto the carpet. 

"Shai?" The light shining from the bathroom fades in brilliance by the time it reaches the general's bedside, washing his body in pale yellow and grey shade and casting faint shadows that outline his face. It is enough for Shai to see that his eyes remain closed. Unable to sign, she places her free hand on top of his and gives it a gentle squeeze. He responds in kind by releasing her arm, leaving behind long red blotches of irritated skin where once there were fingers. Shai ignores the marks and waits for the general to tell her what he needs.

"A glass of water." She jumps to her feet and walks briskly into the kitchen. She walks past her cup of tea on the counter, steeped to a dark brown and likely cold as ice. She grabs a bottle of spring water out of the refrigerator and pours it into a large glass. She brings both glass and bottle back into the bedroom with her and sets them on the bedside table. When she glances at the general, she is met with tired eyes tinged pink from frail vessels swollen with blood.

"Have to...sit up." Shai cocks an eyebrow. She is having a moment of déjà vu. Last time he made such a seemingly innocuous request, he was in and out of consciousness and unable to maintain his balance, the results of which ended with his head nicely snuggled between her breasts. Calm yourself, girl. He won't remember that little incident, and it is improbable that it will happen again within the same night. Shai is not convinced. Perched on the side of the bed, she is prepared to repeat the same technique she used before, but the general has a different strategy. With his right hand, he clasps Shai high on her forearm, near her elbow, and tells her to do the same. 

"Now, pull." Shai does as she is ordered, just like a good, little soldier. As soon as the general has the opportunity, he swings his left arm behind him, pressing his hand into the mattress, his fingers digging into the cotton weave. He pushes forwards to help offset the strain put on Shai. A minute or so later, he is sitting upright and Shai's modesty remains intact. She grabs the glass from the table and hands it to him. 

"Thank you."

 _You are welcome._ He brings his lips to the rim of the glass and lets the water flow freely down his throat. It is emptied in seconds. 

"More. Please." Shai refills the glass. This time he takes a less hurried approach and, when finished, hands Shai a glass still half full.

"Thank you, Shai." To her surprise, he takes her hand in his, his thumb drawing airy patterns against her skin or skimming over the rise and dip of her knuckles. His silence, his deep concentration, the emerald sparks that flicker here and there are sure to send Shai's heart bursting through her sternum. Eventually, his thumb stills and his fingers gently curl around hers. Shai reacts in the only way she deems appropriate; she holds his hand too. A few moments pass. No one moves, nothing is said. Shai does not want to be the one to end such a tender gesture, but she needs to speak to him and for that she needs both hands. With a certain amount of reluctance, she pulls her hand from his. 

_You are most welcome, general._

"No. I mean thank you...for more than just quenching my thirst." Shai's cheeks bloom a bright red, and despite the frenzied impulses that have her nerves buzzing, she meets his gaze with her own.

 _And you are welcome. Again. Please know, general, if ever you need me in such a capacity again, do not hesitate to ask. I like taking care of people, regardless of their rank._ Shai gives him a wink. Sephiroth replies with a cheeky grin. 

"Be careful what you wish for, Shai...You just might get it."


End file.
